


Long Live the King

by Itar94



Series: Trust [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Bromance, F/M, M/M, Question of motives, Series: Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-03
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's time now, for the once and future king to step forth, but he isn't sure if he is ready."</p><p>(AU of season 3 and onwards. Complete.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I - X

**Author's Note:**

> _This story requires that you have read 'Trust': nothing will be comprehensible otherwise. Archiving the story here on A03; it was first written in 2011.  
>  Just to make something clear: the romantic relationships are as in canon, A/G and hinted G/L. Arthur and Merlin are very close and trust each other without doubt, but there's nothing sexual in their relationship in this particular fic._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _After some consideration I have decided to list this story as Arthur/Merlin albeit there is nothing sexual in their relationship in this fic. But the precursors of a relationship can be noted, and they share a strong bromance. (Because destiny.)_
> 
> _Chapter revised 10/3-13._

**I.**

Silent sunlight falls through the window and lands awkwardly at his feet.

He has slept poorly this night, as well as yester-night, and the night before that. Every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is fire and steel, and he can still hear a hundred questions pounding in his head. He can't forget. Well, who can, after such an idiotic and rash display of flight, magic, escape –  _whatever it was._  Who can forget?

Everything is such a mess.

Uther still won't look him in the eye or listen to him. Arthur knows that it may take weeks, months even, before his father will take anything he says into consideration. Because he's disappointed with his son, who so easily has missed that a  _sorcerer_ was his own manservant – right under his nose, using magic …  _Sorcerer._ Arthur has this urge to strangle himself with sarcasm and ire wrought by his own hands.  _Right under your nose_ , he thinks as he looks as his father and king;  _definitely._

Sometimes he wish it's all over, that it's fine, the way it was before: before he got to know things, before he started to ponder the ways of the world. Before, when he was certain that magic was evil and Merlin was a simple idiot manservant and there was _no way_ he could be magic.

But nothing is simple anymore.

It's been one and a half weeks. Eleven days. Two hundred-and-seventy hours (it feels as if he's counted them all, one by one, on fingers and toes). Endless pacing; he's beginning to wear a path through the chamber floors.

He hasn't faced Gaius yet because he's doubtful what to expect - anger or pity or silence; it's easy to keep away from him if he can avoid getting hurt while training with his knights. But he's seen Gwen's stricken face sometimes. She would say hello quietly, but not say much else, occupied by deep thoughts and her duties as a servant. Usually, she'd leave before he can speak. It bothers him that he can't take her into his arms without a second thought.

He can't: everything is fragile now, and were he to break another rule, his world would shatter. His father…Uther, his father, what would he do if he found that his only son is in love with a maidservant?

Morgana is like a shadow taunting his mind. It's not easy to punish a noble. Especially not a female noble and the king's ward at that. So it's not really surprising that no one believes it when Arthur tries to convince them otherwise, he's pushed away, because why would sweet caring brave lady Morgana ever betray Camelot?

No one listens to him. It's doubtlessly annoying and angers him to know end – how on earth can they ignore the words of the Prince? Just stand there with blank, careful faces before steering him away?  _Why?_

_Arthur has lived his whole life being listened to._

Uther still won't see sense, won't listen, won't do anything at all. He  _throws_ him out of the room when Arthur speaks. Not that the prince of Camelot would allow himself to be tossed or thrown anywhere; the guards, when forced to lead him away, never restrain him and he looks tall and proud between them as he is led out.

His father doesn't look him in the eye.

Sometimes, Arthur leaves his chambers when the sun is a hot red disk touching the edge of the horizon, taking some of his knights with him. They train hard as dusk creeps upon them. At those times he can forget everything, names and times and statuses and Merlin – and instead focus entirely on his sword and his shield. Slashing up and down and meeting an opponent's steel with his own, an extension of his arm. He feels not the same surge of happiness or accomplishment when he's got victory, he doesn't smile smugly or comment the knights' sluggishness, just barks a new order and his men scrambles to obey.

_A little out of character._ _He's heard mutterings about it behind his back. For some reason, his knights are rather … pleased about it. Relieved to be rid of his mocking, even if their muscles are sore. Sometimes -  sometimes they wish that he'd break up in a smirk, just once, to know that he still got his haughty honourable self buried somewhere underneath._

It's strange and unfamiliar not to have goofy grin or a comment nearby, no well-known and still a bit clumsy hands putting on his armour or scrubbing his floors or making his bed, while chattering endlessly about some nonsense. Now, to just have rid of this echoing  _loneliness_  that makes his heart go numb, accompanying him as he walks through the castle ...He's never missed anyone this much before. It's frightening and somewhat wrong, but he knows he has to be strong and adapt quickly, maybe even forget. If he looses his guard, he'll be pushed down, he'll loose stance. Arthur cannot let that happen.

No one asks about  **him.** Don't they care or wonder or do they, do they but hide, are they afraid or fascinated or both? Do they think the prince is enchanted, that the warlock left traces on them all, by speaking and smiling and laughing with them? The knights are silent; the servants only whispering in the corners like gossiping ladies because, well, that's what servants do when their masters aren't looking.

_Where could Mer_ _lin have gone? Is he safe?_ Arthur thinks at night, when leaning against the window-frame, watching city-life go by, lights lit in windows below. He makes sure no one can hear his thoughts.  _Is he even alive?_

It's impossible to forget.

Sometimes when she has no other duties, Gwen comes by and watch with him, shyly, or talks a little, but her heart is heavy and there's still disbelief in her eyes. It's been a long while now since they exchanged soft careful words or an embrace, and Arthur is too preoccupied to think about  _love_.

_Hopefully the idiot can take care of himself long enough. Maybe leave_ _somewhere safe, outside the range of the king's forces._

Arthur wants him to come back. At least be nearby, so he can know he's alive. So badly, Arthur  _needs him_ to return,. But then, how stupid can he be? He's silly, to think that. If Merlin ever has  _any_  sense in his head (after all, he might be a warlock, but  _no way_   the size of his brain matches that of his ears!) he should be far, far away from Camelot, from Uther's reign, probably from this part of the Earth. And never return.

* * *

**II.**

Two months. Fifty-eights days. More than a thousand hours. No scrubbing of his chamber floors can erase the signs of his pacing. Back-forth-back-forth tapping on the stone, time should get tired and throw itself into a wall, frustrated with how he abuses it. …It doesn't.

Arthur still cannot sleep well. He's had Gaius – who has begun returning to his old unruffled self – giving him sleeping remedies, just for single empty nights without dreams. After such nights his head is a bit clearer, he can focus. He's back at his father's side but always on his guard, glancing at Morgana's side of the table. He has an ill feeling about her. But something, maybe in the way Merlin had – ages ago – spoken her name, makes him hesitate about confronting her directly.

It is amazing, really, that he's kept alive for this long. There's been no outland threats, no witches or ill-wishers, no poisoned wines or kidnappings or bandits by the boarders or even the occasional beast. There's been no move, from outside or inside. A period strange peace and quiet. After years with chaos, the stillness is uncomfortable. Everything is so routine. So  _predictable._

Except now and then Morgana would slip out of her chambers and Arthur feels uneasy when he cannot see her for hours. It's like letting his guard down; it can mean nothing but trouble.

She's begun looking at him with dangerously glinting eyes.

The feeling that something was about to happen itches in his neck, makes him shiver when he's alone, makes him glance over his shoulder whenever he passes by certain rooms along the corridors.

Arthur sleeps with a knife under the pillow.

* * *

**III.**

" _You have to l_ _et go, Arthur. Let go!"_

_No! He won't. Refuses to. He keeps tugging at the red-stained tunic, not really able to see. Everything's blurry and wet and covered with salty tears, and he wants to scream -_ this can't be real.  _The sky is dark and milky white above him, colours mismatched, but it looks to be too close and solid to be a sky._

_Are those tears? Are they real?_

" _No! No!"_

_He's crying but he shouldn't. He – the prince – a warrior – he_ _doesn't cry! Never, not even if the world ends. Yet there he's sitting with tears in his lap, his body betraying him and his soul appearing to shatter._

" _Let go. You must," the broken body says, softly; for some reason the voice is very calm. "Arthur. Arthur. You're going to be king. A great king."_

_And an angry voice responds:_

" _Stay with me, fight damnit! Don't you dare, you stupid blighter. I'm going to_ kill you _!"_

_God, the man prays, though he's unsure to which god he's praying; please._  This can't be happening.  _He can't determine if the sky breaks up to reveal a sparkling sun or a cold moon, it's a mixture of both. Then the world is filled with pain. He screams. Maybe of anger. "No, no, no," he chants, a prayer, a choir with only one voice, his hands are red, and the sky smirks down at him before it leaves. No sky... no sky..._

_He looses grasp of the tunic and the b_ _ody falls heavily to the ground, a thud, his heart aches with pure grief and hot, white blazing_ **anger.**

"NO!"

When he wakes up he cannot breathe. The scream, torn out of his throat, is somewhere in-between dream and reality; he cannot discern if he really screams at all. There's no dark, milky sky and the room is utterly silent and cold. All candles have burned out and night resides in the city outside. Arthur has to sit with his head in his hands, knees drawn up, bathing in sweat, for a long time struggling to breathe. His chest contracts painfully; he can remember every panicked second of blood and pain and golden-blue eyes staring up at him, familiar eyes so sad-and-happy at the same time. Blood. Blood-blue-golden eyes…  _God! No!_

It cannot be.

Dream. Just a dream, damn it.

Uncertainly, he wipes his burning brow with a trembling hand, before lying back down and staring at the ceiling of the four-poster bed. It's red, reminding too much about … Arthur turns to the side, but the sheets are crimson, as are the pillows, everything around him is covered with  _red_ – he forces his eyes shut and wraps himself into the blankets.

… It should be forgetten by morning.

* * *

**IV** **.**

Next dawn comes bleakly. Arthur stretches and takes time to wake, mutters at the servant who brought breakfast – punctual and quiet, the bowl still warm – and the servant blushes wondering what she did wrong when in fact she was behaving all too perfectly well and servant-like - "Sire, here's your breakfast, sire", "Please call if you need any help, sire", "Shall I take care of the laundry, sire?" - when all Arthur wants to hear is  _"Up already? I can't believe you managed to drag your supercilious backside out of bed."_ – because Merlin would be late as usual.

He dismisses the servant (she walks out curtseying and blank), and the moment she's out of the door he's forgotten her.

Right. Morgana's birthday is today. He should give her something as a gift, but refuses to think of it. She's a traitor.  _(Heart-pounding-blood through his veins as he feels the word on his tongue: traitor – Merlin was on the verge of being one, maybe he_ was _one for a time or forever but Arthur has decided to trust the fool; Morgana, Morgana isn't trustable, predicable, doesn't falter at the thought of destroying Camelot). A traitor._

It hurts too, because Morgana has always been close to him, like a sister… His hearts burns by betrayal.  _(Tears brimming his eyes: Merlin, Merlin betrayed him too, forgiven but betrayed, almost simultaneously, because the idiot has a very stupid, pure, loveable, selfless heart. Who could not like him? Who could not-?)_

There's going to be a feast tonight, sparkling and warm and spectacular in the lady's honour. Arthur has the duty to go, as a prince of his people, but doubts it'll make any difference if he's actually there or not. Not now. No one will pay heed to his words and the king will only glance at him briefly; the elders may not look at him at all, shunning him because they trust their king more than his son. He's the king, after all. His judgement surpasses all. Arthur is a mere prince, crowned or not. The servants are distant as usual; only the knights still respect him but he knows not yet which ones of them are invited to the banquet. And Morgana - she would not care, other than to smirk at him, taking pleasure in his unworthliness.

He dresses without any help, just like he's done from the day Merlin left, not wanting anyone else near him.  _Not now_. The room's a mess (he couldn't bear them so he dismissed the servant hours ago), and he only nibbles at the food waiting on the table. But when he comes back later, he knows he'll find a spot-free clean chamber, maybe another servant with a nameless face and a goblet of wine along with his dinner.

It's a lot trickier than he'd thought to get all clasps set right; he has to bend awkwardly to reach some of them. For some reason, his hands trembles, the belt is a tangle in his hands.

Practicing with his knights. He's never really looked forward to it, as seeing the subjects are so slow to learn, too easy to beat. Today though, it's a relief.

Still no one asks him about Merlin, or anything really, not even sir Kay or sir Leon speaks with him in any other manner than strictly formal and briefly. Kay and Leon might not be very close to him, they are still knights and prince, and always are formal with each other – but not so distant, cold, their voices flat. They discuss a sword technique and sir Leon glances at him worriedly as Arthur replies shortly and out of character, but then goes back to the fighting, concentrating on their weapons and his aching muscles and nothing else.

The ground is turned upside-down by their steel-heeled shoes. Arthur dances – not that he'd ever call it a  _dance_ , it makes it sound like he's at some kind of girly ball and for a short moment, a sharp pain of remembrance shoots through him like ice (it's the kind of thing Merlin would mock him for) – he dances with deadly accuracy back and forth while dealing harsh blows, and yet another knight loses his ground. He's steaming with sweat and the weak sunlight beating down on the field is like torture.

"Sire," a voice rings out, just as Arthur begins to dismiss his knights; "The king requests your presence in his chambers."

* * *

**V.**

"Father, you asked for me."

There has been another witch or wizard spotted again. Plaguing a village a few miles south of Camelot. It's a bit odd; it usually takes awhile before Uther bothers with a place outside the city; then again, this is sorcery they're talking about, not a mere bandit or persistant thief. Arthur frowns. He understands his father's worry, but his heart clenches -  _what if_  … No.

No.

He doesn't want to leave Camelot. Can't have Morgana out of sight for many days. If he does, who knows what will happen?

"I will send some knights immediately," he starts, but Uther interrupts him.

"You will lead them." The ultimatum; it is written on the king's forehead, _do this and regain my trust._

"Father, I believe sir Leon will be an excellent leader," Arthur says firmly, tries to stay as Uther's ally and still disobey him. It's hard since his father has been giving him the cold shoulder for weeks. He does not lie; sir Leon has both strength and courage and has led several missions in the past. It doesn't even occur to Arthur that he's praising someone who isn't even present, he rarely does such things, at least that's how the old Arthur would've acted. He's alien to this new Arthur: himself. Especially since Merlin's left and isn't there to insult him and constantly point out his flaws un-begrudgingly.

"Arthur, I am not speaking to you as a father," the king says and the words streaks a painful chord in Arthur's heart – he realizes how weak he is; "I am ordering you as your king."

_Damn it. While I'm gone, don't dare do anything, Morgana…_

"When will I leave?"

"At dawn tomorrow." When he's probably still a bit groggy by the sweet, foreign wine and yet stuck with false laughter hitching in his throat.

* * *

**VI.**

It's a beautiful day. The sunlight is soft and smooth against his skin. Birds are chirping in the nearby trees and the air is comfortably crispy. Easy to breathe in and out. Cooling his lungs. Soon autumn will fall into winter but right now he's neither cold or even unhappy. He's got food in his stomach and a cloak on his shoulders and knows that he will probably live to see another day.

What death-condemned exiled man wouldn't be happier?

Except he truly could be.

Merlin is still clumsy and bad at navigating smoothly through a forest, but he keeps away from the roads and cities, unless when he truly has to. Food and money is scarce; he had absolutely _nothing_ when he left and he yet is very empty-handed. He still feels bad about stealing that loaf from the unsuspecting, friendly baker. Or that piece of clothing hanging to dry outside the stained village house. It's happened more than once, but he has to, to  _survive_. However it doesn't make up for his conscience. Stealing is for the desperate and for the cold-hearted, and he rather categorizes himself with the former.

… He often wishes things were different. That he was back home. _Home._

He's realized he can't go to Ealdor. He'd too easily get caught. The king must be searching the kingdom for him, and it would be no surprise if some loyal knight is waiting in his home village for his appearance. It hurts to abandon Ealdor like that, and he hopes that no one there gets harmed because of him. God, his mother. Does she miss him as he misses her?

She must surely know by now, about the mess he's caught himself in. She'd not scowl him. She's not like that. Instead she'd try convincing him to go far away to someplace safe, far away from Camelot, Uther, Arthur, Arthur. Always so caring and protective and putting others before herself. Convince him to leave her forever.

But he can't bring himself to step too far away from the Kingdom That Bans Magic, land that breaths of ancient powers suppressed and anger and doubt and Future Albion.

Usually, he sleeps under the shadow of a tree, but last night he managed to find place in the corner of a stranger's heart. They allowed him to rest and eat under their roof. They do not know who he really is and would never suspect him either, he hopes – he'd helped them with yesterday's work at the fields, earning his brief stay. He's got not the heart to sneak into the night and steal. It'd certainly be easy for him, with his gift. But he doesn't.

_He's to_ _o selfless to do that, he supposes. His great weakness. Long ago Kilgarrah had murmured the words, that his heart may be his downfall, and Merlin doesn't doubt him._

This is also as far away from Camelot he dares go, many miles between the city and the village; thus, they will not likely connect him with the sorcerer who escaped the executor's axe nearly two months ago. He's just a traveller, a peasant, a nobody seeking a living, and right now it suits him fine to be nameless.

Despite that, he does hear rumours. It makes him stay hidden for days after hearing it, afraid and truly alone, before moving on to the next place. An abandoned cottage, a tiny village happy to have his help, a clearing in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes when he finds an isolated safe spot, he feels a bit of freedom, and dares to use magic to warm himself or shield himself from the rain. To be reminded of whom he is. Of purposes, destiny, the dragon Kilgarrah's long-ago words. Of Arthur.

His heart burns.

Though he dislikes admitting it, Merlin misses Arthur (his insults, his prattiness, his wonderful valour sometimes peeking through the foliage, even polishing those dirty boots of his– hang on, no, he can't be missing  _that_!) maybe even more than he misses his own mother.

* * *

**VII.**

He's distracted. Keeps glancing at the large wooden doors, ready to bolt, but his face remains impassively calm as usual. Tinted with a small corteous smile. When he grips the goblet, his arms are tense and knuckles white. "To Lady Morgana!" fills the air; "Happy birthday! Happy birthday!" roars the people in the hall, and Arthur murmurs along with them. The words continues to bounce happily up and down at the table, across colourful tapestries, over people's faces. Happy Birthday, cheers, milady.

Morgana is surrounded by smiles and gifts and hopeful suitors' voices. There are always one or two knights trying to woo her, and tonight is no difference. Some gifts are tiny, others are magnificent, each one taking place in the soft candlelight. Silken dresses, a decorated hand-held mirror, exotic fabrics from far and wide. Arthur wants to avoid trouble of any kind and gives her a whole set of jewellery, beautiful and golden and rarely expensive.

Nothing scarlet - crimson like blood or sharing the colour of the drapery hanging behind her or the ruby jewellery plastered to her dress.

Nothing sharp against her skin.

Before, he might have given her something bolder, a fine horse or a knife perhaps, but now all he can think of is how dangerous it would be to present Morgana with any kind of weapon. Anything she might use to her advantage. (But you forget, Arthur, he tells himself, she's got magic. What does a weapon of iron mean when she can wield such a power?)

His heart still burns for her, though, even if he no longer trusts her. Arthur wants to love her, to be able to spill secrets for her, to trust her alone with his father. Like he did once long ago when they both were younger and more naïve, when they went behind Uther's back together - _together._ But he cannot. Who knows what she will do once she has the chance of harming Camelot or the king?

Uther smiles, proud that his son finally seems to be coming to his senses and getting along with his beloved Morgana again. Lastly he presents his gift to the lady, as music bounces with laughter around the room, tinkling on the walls. The hall doesn't fall silent, but every man or woman, seated or standing, leans closer and cranes their necks in anticipation. They all want to see what the king is giving the lady on her day.

Arthur's blood freezes in his veins. He has nothing to grip tightly in his hand to calm his nerves, so he ends up digging his nails into his palm.

The wooden box is opened to reveal a knife. The blade is finely crafted, looking like ice in Morgana's hands, and Arthur feels his heart beat like a drum against his ribcage. An overwhelming sense of danger presenting itself and bowing at the lady's feet makes him grip the edges of the table firmly, thinking  _Where's my sword?_  and  _When will she strike? Will she at all?_

* * *

**VIII.**

It's a long, hard day's work at the fields. He's bathing in sweat, and his hands feels dulled. He tries not to be clumsy, to earn his tiny fee, and somehow when he's not a servant – not lower than anybody else, not having any master – it's a little easier. There's no one to impress but himself, and that works fine with him. His employer, an old man without any living family, calls out for him; the old man never gets his name right ("Mervin, Martin!") but Merlin cannot care. Better let the man be a bit confused. Better let him not be able to slip out the truth to a passerby.

"Boy, c'mon in, there's food on the table. Ye've worked enough for today."

The field seems vast when Merlin looks over it. He's almost finished.

"Thank you," he says to the old man as he walks inside the small house, taking seat in front of a bowl. It's filled with some steaming, mushy...something.  _God, he's worse a cook than Gaius ever was!_ he can't help thinking, regretting it at once; his face clouded.

This is the fifth day Merlin has spent here. He has to move on soon again, but he feels bad about leaving the man on his own - he's weak and old, and it's uncertain if he will survive the upcoming winter. Hopefully, the villagers will help him once the raven-haired boy has gone...far, far away again.

The sun is melting into the horizon, scarlet mixed with amethyst.

"What's on yer mind, boy? Old I might be, but I haven't lost all of my senses."

"N-nothing, nothing..." Merlin feels ashamed and stirs the stew, nibbling at it. "I was just lost in thoughts. That's all."

"Missing someone?"

"Yes, I…" The words tumble out of his mouth before he realizes his mistake, catching it and blushing. "Uh, never mind. I'll go back to the field, there's still work to be done. Thank you for the meal." He's barely tasted it.

The old man regards him with sharp eyes, but lets it slip and Merlin walks back out into the dying sunlight.

* * *

**IX.**

The next day, or maybe after mere hours - it's hard to tell - he's roughly awoken by shouting voices and fire. Smoke fills his lungs and he cries out in panic before opening his eyes, greeted by red and yellow and orange, sharp and unforgiving. His eyes sting painfully, they water and his hands are hot and his skin burns. The heat of the fire is mere inches away from him. He can't even begin to comprehend the situation, before he's reaching out with his magic. Pure instinct fills his veins and the flames are pushed away from him, like he's wearing a shield.

_Where's the old man? What's going on? An accident? Did someone put the house on fire?_ _Did lightning strike overnight?_

The roof collapses in front of him. Merlin shouts, again, seeing a hunched over figure cowering on the other side of the room. Without touching anything, he lifts the wood and the fire away, grabs the man's arm and flees the building. His face is covered with soot.

"…What's going on?" he gasps and swallows several mouthfuls of crisp air. The sun has just risen. There is no smoke coming from down the road where the village is, but the old man's house and crops are ruined and the forest around it set ablaze.

A large group of people are gathered by the edge of the field, shouting accusations and Merlin's heart skips a beat –  _How do they know? -_ When he steps forward, hands raised as to signal peace, the villagers angrily raises their torches and pitchforks.

"Why are you doing this?" Merlin shouts, and the man behind him wails and cries, having lost his home, the one thing he owned.

"Foul sorcerer!" is the answer. "You tricked us! Tricked us to believe you, when you just were here to save your own skin! Leave now, sorcerer, or we'll kill you!"

_Would they really do that?_   fleets through his mind. C _an they do such a thing? Or will they turn me over to Uther's men?_ At the thoughts, his eyes widen.  _There must be knights nearby!_ "Let me explain, please," he tries, but is cut off.  _The old man…he's innocent-_

"Don't throw your poor excuses at us!"

A man whose face he doesn't recognize swings an axe at him, and Merlin stumbles backwards to avoid being harmed. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. He has to flee now before it's too late. But what would happen then to the villagers? Would Uther have sense and mercy? Would he punish them? Merlin feels hopelessly at loss of what to do.

He is truly selfish. Taking advantage of other people's kindness. What else could he do? He looks at the poor old man, heart aching knowing that he might  _die_  because of him. Because of his damned magic. The old man looks back at him in pity, wrinkled and shadowed. There is no accusation.

"Go, boy," he says, like he  _understands_.

Merlin runs - helpless in the face of fate – hating himself, because he's afraid he's just condemned the man to his death.

* * *

**X.**

Night is cold and uneasy. Arthur isn't really asleep, but keeps walking back and forth like in a haze. The thought of sending a servant or knight to check on his father every now and then nags at his mind, but he cannot do that without raising suspicion and worry.

_Do you really believe that Morgana would harm a soul_ , a voice keeps muttering in his mind, trying to defy what he already knows, in his heart:  _Merlin was a traitor too for goodness sake!_

_I let him go, didn't I? He's still free and out there, somewhere, alive. At least I hope he's alive. I trust him to get into trouble but ..._ Arthur bites his lower lip and pauses on his fifty-sixth step. Maybe fifty-seventh, he's unsure.  _Do I really trust him that much? Do I really want to believe that Morgana is going to harm father?... Maybe they're right! Maybe father is right. I've been brainwashed. I'm brainwashed, paranoid, deluded, crazy, enchanted, mad._

Frustrated, he attacks a pillow with balled fists and really wishes it's someone's big head, and he wants to have a tongue-lashing with the big idiot Merlin again to let off steam – maybe throw a tantrum and a shoe at the boy and hear that he's acting like a prat. A relieving confirmation. But he's alone now and doesn't know how to deal. Usually if there was an enemy threatening Camelot and Uther, he'd hunt down and kill them. But Morgana... he can't...

She's family! Childhood friends since always and in the past, a sister to him. And he doesn't  _understand_  why on earth she would want to harm Camelot. even if she has magic – it doesn't need to be used to hurt!... _Merlin said that once. Or twice. Magic's a weapon…what decides whether it's good or evil is the wielder: like a sword and its fighter_  …Unless she wants some kind of revenge he doesn't understand or know about, unless she hates Uther with a passion...wants to overthrow him... Is that it? Does she think him as an unjust king? A faulty guardian? Slayer of so many of her kind, and many others who were innocent, forced into flames, face-to-face with an axe? Is that it? Is that it? ("Of course it is,  _of course_.")

The reasons feel so bleak (maybe, maybe not bleak at all, no, but strange and alien), because he cannot comprehend how it is to have magic, flowing in your veins and sharing your breath.


	2. XI - XX

**XI.**

The road is very empty. Besides feeling thirsty, hungry and disconsolate, his body aches and he thinks he's scalded his left arm. Just his typical  _luck_. The fabric of the shirt is torn, but he doesn't look for the injury. Knowing he's got a serious damage would make the pain worse, make him feel sicker and weaker. Right now, what he's got is reaching the limit of it's not what he's able to deal with.

He isn't good at dealing with pain, physical at least. Emotional pain is also bad, but he's got more experience with it and knows how to subdue it, like throw it in a lidded box and hide the key (for awhile). How to keep babbling unimportant things, that doesn't reveal his secret, and to force the tears away, stare at the floor; to polish an endless line of boots or something else as monotone. It makes him safe. Shielded. (Although now finding such occupations are a lot harder, not being servant anymore, just a lonely man on a lonely road. Walking gives you time to think. Reflect. Regret.)

Physical pain...itches. He has rarely used magic to heal and he doesn't know what to do, especially without consulting the magic book that Gaius once gave him. Said object now sure lies hidden within layers of dust and sorrow, or maybe the old man burned it. To rid of the evidence. To lay ashes of Merlin's memory. To forget. Would Gaius berate him for being stupid if he saw him now and admonish him a thousand times over to be careful, be more careful?

The blunt thought makes him stagger.

Merlin wanders around until he's sure he's more lost than ever, both in the forest and the falling darkness, but at least he's gotten rid of the sharp smell of smoke.

* * *

**XII.**

"Did you know he's a dragonlord?"

The word feels weird on his tongue, when thinking about  _him,_ the klutzy innocent-looking (but not-so-innocent) boy-almost-man, servant, friend, _stranger_. This isn't the first time he's spoken the word aloud but it's taken him this long to go to the old man, speak up and face it again. He's not been ready, he suppose, after the idiot's escape and the white months following.

"I have always known of Merlin's gifts and heritage. But I swore silence; to be a warlock is dangerous enough, but if people found he's the son of Balinor…"

Yes, Uther would have yet another reason to put him in the chopping block. There's a short moment where the prince feels oddly sarcastic with some remark lingering on the tip of his tongue, but keeps quiet, speaking up will only increase his head- and heartache. There's a hole in there, in his chest, that cannot be filled up again, growing ever the bigger all since since the warlock (idiot magic dragonlord friend, friend, friend) left.

Sighing, Arthur crosses his arms. "...At least I will know you won't hide anymore secrets from me, am I right, Gaius?" He suddenly frowns at the tired-looking physician. The old man has been under a heavy strain and kept very quiet all since Merlin's near-execution. He is nowhere near all right. But to whom can he speak of it? He is the one who has been housing the sorcerer for so many years under the king's roof.

"I will not lie, sire." Though surely he cannot take the old man to his word fully, knowing what's happened in the past. It seems the healer has sworn secrecy and silence to more people's pasts than the prince wants to count.

"Good." Arthur leans forward, hands gripping the table in something akin to apprehensiveness; he knows he's in danger already.  _If Morgana finds out..._ "I need your aid."

Later, in afternoon shadows, maybe he'll ask the man who knows and promises not to lie, about things his heart-aches to  _know_ , of nightmares and sorcerers, his mother and the king and a hundred other now irrelevant hurtful things.

"And something to help me sleep," he adds, a quiet afterthought; the dreams must be chased away.

* * *

**XIII.**

It is almost funny, really. In some bitter kind of way. Fate has kept tossing him around, proclaiming 'Move on – next stop is Your Destiny', and here he is; alone, starving and cold. No matter how close to the tiny fire he sits, he keeps shivering, maybe he's come down with something. An illness that Gaius would've solved with a single simple draught, about which Merlin remains clueless.

He has nothing to do. No one to speak to. Nowhere to go. Even if he wants to return to Camelot, he knows that it's impossible. He can't. He'd be arrested and condemned – again ... Would it matter if he died this moment? Would anyone mourn? Would anyone but the still night and old forest trees ever know...?

Shudders wracks his body, and then, for some reason, he's crying. He can't make sense of any of his thoughts. Hot tears run down his face, stinging his skin, his eyes burn and he wonders if anyone else is crying like him right now. Or if he truly is completely alone.

_Arthur. Years of life circled around you. A purpose. Destiny._ _Fate. Arthur. Two sides of a coin. Now, what am I to do? I have no one to ask..._

Hours pass. He wanders. In the distance, he's spotted a road, maybe leading to some village, but he's determined not to follow it and get false hopes. He lingers on the boarders of the land, unable to go any closer, unable to go back. Constantly he worries, wondering if Arthur's gotten himself into trouble again, if he's in danger where no one can reach him. Are the knights keeping him safe? What about the king? Morgana? Has she made her move yet? ... When will she strike?

_What about the druids?_

They're like him yet  _not_ like him and it's very confusing, but they're strangers, usually peaceful – not part of anyone's plots than their own. He doesn't know whether it's right to turn to them for aid and shelter. If it's fair. (Which it's not.)

Because of him, years ago, many of their kind died, when he unwillingly lured Arthur and his men there. Because of him and Morgana. Back then when he trusted her, at least wanted to, and wanted to help her. So desperately he'd wanted to speak to her about her gift, and about his own. They shared Magic. Both were of the Old Religion, born out of something powerful and magical. A gift. A curse. A destiny. God,  _so close_ , he'd been right there next to her when the druid child appeared and so close, so close to speak and later on, when fire existed both in and outside her dreams, he'd been near, he'd wanted so badly to tell her...! Some way, he wanted to protect her. From herself.

And then Morgause had stepped in. All tipped and went downhill – the poison and the sleeping city, the lies told and the blood spilt because of her and because of him and _because of_ _them all_. Like it'd already been written down. Destiny.

What a bitter, ruthless word.

He's sure that eventually, he'll be sought out by people of hers that will try to kill him, when they figure out who he is, the prophecies. He hopes he'll slip them by, unnoticed, without having to take a life... It makes his heart jerk painfully: he dreams and regret for days, months, years afterwards. He doesn't like killing, even when it's the enemy. When it's necessary - even then, he can hesitate a split second, it  _hurts_ , but then he remembers He has to keep others safe. Arthur, Camelot, the knights, people innocent and those to him beloved, Arthur, once and future Arthur. But he does all he can to defeat without using death. Cheating, one might say.

He wishes he has some kind of mirror to look through, to get a glimpse, just to be sure that Arthur's safe. Anything. A vision. A dream.

_But if he dies, I'll know, and if he's hurt, I'll hear about it_ , Merlin thinks. _If the king or his son is harmed, word will spread like fire through grass._   _Then, if that happens ... No. No. That cannot be allowed to happen_. If anything... anything ...

_I got no choice._ _Soon enough … I must return._

* * *

**XIV.**

The village is not very far; a few hours' hasty ride at most and they reach it before nightfall. The silence is pressing; the men's words died a long time ago, broken by their leader's stern face, sharp eyes swirling to glare at them. His back is tense like a bowstring. He keeps a hand on the hilt of his sword. Just in case.

Magic. He hates dealing with this kind of thing. Not only that no matter how many men he brings – a powerful wizard can surprise, overthrow, kill them in one moment, with one word. And it reminds him of painful, fresh memories. Betrayal. A little bit of trust. Merl— _No_.

"We're here, sire," sir Leon announces unnecessarily.

"Spread out, men. I want to hear what the people has to say." Hopefully, hopefully, it's a false alarm. So they can go home and tell Uther the relieving news. It's fine: no one waiting the death sentence.

"Anyone to be put on guard, sire?"

"Take Percival with you and scout the area. Report back to me the hour before sunset."

"Yes sire."

As the men rest their horses, eat and rest themselves, Arthur sits by the window of the inn they've decided to occupy. The owner of the place is constantly blushing, grinning, overly happy and constantly polite, even as the food served is nothing like Camelot's luxury. The knights are glad anyway. Arthur grunts something that might have been a Thank you. Oh how the tavern-owner could've sung. (The Legendary Prince Arthur, in his tavern!)

Talk buzzes around the knights, who have to keep away townspeople from the annoyed prince. It's clear to the men that he needs some refreshments before he can deal with them, but the people are stubborn and angry. Keeping repeating and trampling on their own words:  _fire_  and  _sorcerer, sorcerer, sorcerer_  echoes heatedly about the room.

Arthur feels dizzy.

Two sirs return a little bit later. The people they've spoken with had lots to say. Even as the words are painted red with ire and dread, it's got some kindle of truth in them. There's a burned house south about the road. The field has been ruined, and an old man has lost his home. No, the man's no sorcerer, in fact he's warm-hearted and kind and otherwise ordinary, not an inch of evilness or magic about him. In the end, the other villagers had spared him – they thought he was enchanted, they say. Tricked. The fault was not his...

Only a bit of help he'd hired. A single young man, willing to do some work in exchange for a roof over his head and food to fill his empty stomach before he moved on. Nothing more. Nothing less. A single lone peasant, like hundreds of others.

"Do you think that's the ... the sorcerer he's talking about?" one of the knights asks one of his elders carefully. He's young and a newcomer, having caught the prince's eye mere months back, for his excellent swordsmanship and high spirit.

Each time  _that word_  is mentioned, Arthur freezes up, and someone usually ends up in the stocks. The men aren't stupid. They know very well about...well,  _him_. The servant who was condemned to death a few months back, whose name no one dares to speak, fearing to become associated with him and for the king to condemnd them. Arthur won't admit anything, but the two had been close. Not just master and servant. Not just prince and peasant. Such friendships are rare and valuable, but hard to be recognized by someone like the king. Uther doesn't pardon. Does he? The old adamant king, his heart of steel - he would never forgive.

"It seems to me, almost like the villagers are a bit  _–_ hasty," sir Percival continues, glancing at the main table where Arthur sat. The prince didn't hear, engrossed in conversation with the old man. "Making such a decision on their own. They didn't report us till afterwards after all, too late if you ask me..."

"A common reaction," answers the older knight. "Panic before the cause."

"Still." Denial. "Why would a sorcerer help others? Why not just conjure up what he needs? Not … not that _I_  know how magic works of course!, but..."

"I'd advise you," says sir Leon, not excessively kindly, "to keep your words to yourself from now on."

* * *

**XV** **.**

Arthur is patient, but his hearts keeps beating faster and faster, like he's on the run. Again and again, he asks the old man to repeat what happened. Right now, he wants to be deaf. It sounds ... sounds too much like...

"Tell me again, please. What happened? When did you meet him?"

The old man is talkative and open-hearted, tearing on his nerves, but Arthur manages to subdue irritation. If it's something he's learned, it's the virtue of patience. "Eight days ago, found 'im on the road, half-starved poor sod. Let him rest for the night and get something to eat. The following morning, the lad offered to help me with the field, seeing as I'm an old lonely man. No family, you know. My sons died in battle. Me poor wife was overcome with grief, couldn't bear it..." Shaking his head, sighing.

Arthur guides him back to the subject. "The young man you found. Did he say anything? Where he came from? His name?"

"Nah, said he's a peasant from the north. Was trying to make a living on his own...no family. His name was Tom or...or Matthew..? Yes, that's it, I think. Right. Sorry, sir, me memory's been worsenin' as of late, think of me age."

"Could you describe him?"

"Lanky. Pale. A mop of dark hair, I think...brown or black; I'm not sure. A bit on the clumsy side, but endearing; sure he seemed used to working hard. But slightly easily upset. Didn't like being asked questions. Something awful must've happened the lad I'm sure, but, I was given no answers."

… _the…the idiot!_

Arthur's face hardens, he has to think so he doesn't look upset or bite his lip in worry.  _So close to the boarder! Is he mad?_   comes the voice in his head, admonishing; however, he can't help feeling…relief: because the idiot is alive. Alive!

At least he was two days ago. But it's enough. His heartbeat thunders.

The old man takes a sip of his drink, shaking his head tiredly. His hand is burned, coaled and stiff. "If I'd known... I was sure that he had secrets of his, of course. Every man does. But this serious... I lost my home for it, and was not even sure he was a real sorcerer. Meaning, I saw no trickery, mind ye. But he saved me, the lad, from the fire. I'm lucky to've gotten out with only this." He waves a hand in front of the prince's face, one of the fingers is roughly cut in half, and another is missing. The skin coal black. Tainted. The proof is almost like a mockery.

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, and he's surprised to hear the genuineness slipping into his voice.

Thanking him, he lets the old man go and finish his drink. Arthur feels uncomfortable and looks no one in the eye. Oblivious the whatever words his knights have traded, he goes to sit among them. It's safe, he tells them, An accident, misunderstanding: no sorcerer. For once, lying feels all right. A kind of safety that settles in his heart.

"There was no sorcerer," he says. "I'm sure of it."

Condolences will be given tomorrow, apologizes spoken, then they would be off and this whole thing forgotten. Uther will be pleased and let the matter slip out of his mind and Arthur will be able to sleep again, because he knows, he knows that Merlin is out there and maybe still alive. Yet…the old man's make him uneasy, because they make him wish silly things.

Arthur is unsure whether to feel horror, or hope.

* * *

**XVI.**

Hang on. This place. Isn't it kind of ... familiar? That aged, bearded oak…next to that triangular rock...

With a heavy groan, Merlin covers his face in his hands. He's been walking in a circle. For the third time. Third! By god, this is terrible. He's never going to get out of this goddamned forest.

The road is avoidable, to the point where he can no longer find it. Now he regrets making the choice of leaving it behind. If he finds it and follows it... But what if it leads him straight back to the village? He'd be burned or stabbed or something equally appalling. Only using his gift would save him then and if he used it, he'd be branded yet again and only be acknowledged with hate. Oh,  _wonder_ ful. Besides there ought to be knights there by now, ready to arrest him. He can't go through it all again...!

He lets his head fall down his chest, and behind the thick roots of a tall tree, he decides to sleep for awhile. He's got no food, but all those tedious hours in Gaius' company have paid off; he knows what plants and roots are edible and what's not. The hunger won't be completely stilled, but it's better than complete starvation, as cold sets in and he cradles his hands to his chest.

That night, he dreams. It's been awhile since he's had such a vivid, living dream, where he can see everything so clearly but not understand, process it all; where he hears voices he's heard before, but cannot determine where they come from. In his dream, he's back in Camelot, Gwen's pinning him with accusing stares and the king is out of sight, the throne-room filled with strange armed people.

_There's Arthur, but his eyes are blank, and there's a smirk decorating the lower part of his face. And in the centre of the dream, there's a creamy white tall person with her dark hair tied into a knot, and atop of her head rests a thick band of gold and sparkling jewels_ _; next to her, another lady, armoured and fair-haired. People roar; Camelot smiles; but in a corner, there's a child crying, hands covered with blood, face streaked with dark tears. Merlin sees it all, cannot move, cannot understand all the flashing bright_ colours _._

_The smell filling his nostrils_ _makes him ill. Sticky, thick substance on his skin. No, he suddenly realizes, it's not a child there. Pressed up in a corner, blue eyes panicking, flickering around to look for an escape but people turn a blind eye or maybe they are blind. The king is out-of-character, alone and vulnerable. There's a knife in the tall lady's hands. A shadow towering over the man._

_Why is Arthur so calm, silent, ghost-like? There's no sorrow in his eyes. No panic when he moves his hands to grab a weapon – no, his hands do not move at all. No flinching. No reaction. No voice. A lingering smirk and empty eyes, that's all, while the lady watches and the king pleads._

_Blood, roaring, the guards raises their halberds in greeting, people applauds, blood stains his tunic, the material clammy against his skin,_ _standing in the corner –_ he can't move! He can't move _! The lady takes her seat, crown on her head (gold, glimmering, jewels tinkling in the candlelight) and not a word passes Arthur's lips; he's like a statue – "_ Arthur! Do something damnit!What's wrong with you, supercilious stupid clotpole?  **Clotpole** ,  **you hear**!" 

_Where is his reaction? Where is it? – and all the time, Merlin's ears ring painfully as the world flashes by, people cheer, a hundred thousand men bow at the lady's feet and citizens are a mixed variety of horror and relief. The chamber floor is red, red, an ocean of colours and a choir greeting:_

" _Long live the queen! Long live the queen! Long live the queen!"_ _…_

Merlin wakes up with a gasp,  _Long live the queen!,_  ringing in his head - _The king is dead! The king is dead! -_ and he cannot close his eyes again, fearing that it's happening, that it's real -  _Arthur is in danger._

* * *

**XVII.**

A few days, hours, later, not a thing has changed in Camelot. No arrests has been made, the knights believe the sorcerer was killed in the fire, old man forgotten. The villagers seemed happy when they left. Relived. Gaius reads the younger man's face which betrays nothing and a hundred things at the same time, though Arthur asks but doesn't speak, doesn't voice his thoughts and recent encounters.

"What do you have to tell?"

"I have observed the lady, as you wished. But, Arthur, you _must_  be careful. I have an inkling that she's aware she's being watched ... She is quieter, more strained. The first few times I saw her, she was carrying around that hand-mirror she was given for her birthday and staring into it, but upon noticing me, she quickly hid it away and refused to speak of it."

"So that mirror is of importance?" A childish sort of tone slips into his voice, as if saying:  _She might be tricky and her heart dark, but she's still a woman. Sure she doesn't want to be seen fawning over herself in public…_ Arthur has never really understood the female specimen anyway. It's a hope, almost, a tiny prayer - let it be so, that his fears are unfolded, and she is not the woman whom she seems. Let it be so she still is Morgana, his dear adoptive sister, not this stranger.

But Gaius' voice is grave and his words do no console. "It's not so easy to tell, sire, but something definitely is off. I fear... I fear that it might not be an ordinary mirror."

"Not ordinary? Then what's it for?"

The unspoken settles near his spine, silent and eerie.

"I do not know. A mean of seeing things in a different manner, perhaps, or for concealment ..."

"You have both knowledge and books to enquire. I'm sure you can come up with something." He glances at the door, and he raises his voice a bit, deliberately but not too obviously. "Well then, I got to get going. Can't let the men be left waiting outside forever, however good training it'll be for their patience."

He hears the guards pass by, though the door is closed, and Gaius senses them too, their footsteps sharp and synced against the stone floor. Though his face is serious, there's a tiny twinkle in his eyes, hinting the beginning of a secret smile.

"The injury is minor," the physician says quite loudly; "but I suggest you don't strain your arm any further, sire."

Playing along, Arthur replies: "I cannot make any promises."

To the outsider, it sounds like things are (finally) back to normal.

* * *

**XVIII.**

_Tap-tap-tap_ lashes against the ground, his face and slightly bent back, with rising ferocity. He's finally found it; a road, dark and muddy now as he stumbles along it in search for cover from the heavy downpour. He dares not utter ancient words to produce any kind of shield or warmth or light, that's too risky. Klutzy he might be, but he isn't stupid. This is closer to Camelot than ever, deep within the edges of the land which the king enforcing laws against magic controls. It's been a long while since he sent a glance at a map, so he can't tell when he ought to come upon a village, but it's supposed to be around here somewhere. Unless a beast recently flew by and lifted it from the roots or something, but that's highly unlikely, Merlin thinks with a faked bit of bitter, hopeful glee.

The young man is thinner than ever, gangly and weak. His arm still stings, like a giant bee has settled there and decided to endlessly irritate the skin and flesh beneath.

There! Through drizzling _tap-tap-tap_ clobbering his ears, there's a faint sound of something else, and though he has a blurry vision, there it is. Buildings. A creaking old sign above a tavern. Lanterns lit up the walls with a yellow glow and most windows are occupied by matching lights. Candles or torches, it didn't matter. The street was empty except for one or two inhabitants who rushed to get into shelter. He's among them, a figure huddled in gray shadows. The lights are so warm and welcoming like a long-lost embrace: he wants to run into the warmth, cocoon in a shell of safety.

He's stupid, he knows, anyone would call him that and his plan idiotic, but he has to…So he steps forward, toward the door.

The tavern appears to be built inside an old, reconstructed mill or tower; the building quite tall and stony, set apart from the rest of the wooden houses. Grateful, Merlin pushes the door open and stumbles inside. People are everywhere, some just as drained as him – old men playing a game at the corner, dice rolling across a table, young ones drinking to their hearts' content, smiling girls by their sides. The owner, a plump woman with thick hair, grins in greeting but is soon engulfed in conversation with a customer at the bar. Like he's an innocent nobody, a stranger who's no worse for wear than anyone else. No one spares him a glance.

Almost like a relief.

Almost like there'd been no fire to escape from – no village or old poor innocent man and no dragon and no army attacking Camelot to begin with.

_Have_ _they heard of the incident? The dragon? The escapee warlock on the creature's back? …Do they even care? Oh why would they._

If they have, they apparently can't make any match with the young tousled man leaning against a wall tiredly. He realizes he's got no money, so he takes seat in a corner, empty-handed and tired but at least, there's some shelter here. Where's he going to get food? Has he to steal again? The thought makes his stomach turn and twist uncomfortably. At least in here it's warm and dry. No muddy forest floor, no huddling beneath damp cold blankets next to the embers of a tiny fading fire.

* * *

**XIX** **.**

"Milady?" the servant girl inquires softly while arranging some flowers put on the bedside table, pearly white and gaudy beautiful red. The rest of the room is strangely gloomy and bare, it's been all since her mistress' return. She has different furniture from before and keeps much of the sunlight out all the time. Thickly woven curtains are in the way.

Gwen is worried about her, but every time she asks, Morgana acts abnormally cold and distant, distant like living in another world – one eye here and one there, a hawk watching. Everything about her, from the swirling layers of her dresses (lately heavy, dank, brushing the floor like during a funeral) to the paleness of her skin, she acts dangerous, like there's a secret she knows and everyone else is blissfully oblivious. Like she's changed. Gwen dislikes criticizing and being suspicious, but she cannot say the change is for the better.

"You can go now, Gwen." Still, the lady speaks with the same friendly words used in the past, like her disappearance never happened.

But that uncanny smile she's wearing so often now, which Gwen observes out of the corner of her eye, it's  _frightening_  and the servant hastily exits the room.

She is very aware she can't talk about this change, spill her worries and suspicions with anybody because the king would condemn her and everyone else who dared say such things about lady Morgana. Lately, the king's grip of the kingdom has weakened, even as his fists wraps more firmly around it, strangling the city and its people and their voices. Gwen doesn't want to get into trouble nor put anyone else in such a seat. There's nobody to share them with anyway, Gaius is old and trouble already and Merlin…Merlin is gone, he'll probably never return.

Gwen would like to see him again but knows it's impossible; he's condemned to death and why return to Camelot then?

* * *

**XX** **.**

Of course, the situation is scattered pretty quickly. Just his usual luck, Merlin figures.  _Always attracting trouble, wherever I go…isn't that what Gaius said?_ The man who's been like a father for him for years – his heart aches at the thought and he quickly pushes it away before the feeling grows too vivid.

Resembling wild boars breaking down a farmer's property, a group of men – half a dozen maybe – enters the inn. Talk, which just hummed around, immediately stops and the plump woman who a second appeared so kind gets a frosty scowl on her face, eyes hardening, darkening. A girl which has been walking around serving drinks is roughly shoved aside, a tray with half-filled cups crashing to the floor. The noise is piercingly sharp as pottery breaks and liquid sloshes across stone, but the rest of the room's silence is resolute.

_T_ _his is it,_  Merlin thinks,  _I probably should leave before things gets too messy..._

No one moves in their seats. He finds himself frozen too, despite of what he's just been thinking. Watching – every pair of eyes is fixed on the brawny men, drinks and gambles forgotten. One of them, tall and muscled and toad-faced, clambers across the room with his companions close by – throwing icy glares like spears at the bystanders – and leans across the bar. "Doesn't business look good today, Martha. You don't mind sharing, do you?"

She's resolute. This statement must've echoed through this room hundreds of times before. It's not just a statement, it's a warning. Merlin shifts in his seat. "Neither my husband or I will pay any debts to  _your likes_ ," she says.

"Oh? Is that so?" The man begins to look dangerous, a cross look in his glinting eyes.

From the corner of his eye, Merlin sees a dark-haired man shift and tense in his seat. Somehow, the man reminds him of a fighter, maybe even Arthur – that look on his face is hauntingly familiar… _Don't think of it; don't, don't, don't._

"Well, then. We'll just have to collect it ourselves. You've had your chances, woman, if you had anything in that head of yours you'd know what our warnings meant." Something gleams in his hand, coming up from his sleeve, and Merlin wants to react, jump in and do something, even if he has no idea what this fight-to-be is about and he's got no part of it, only will get into trouble. The woman still looks like a statue, stern and unyielding.

It's not his voice that cuts through the air, which surprises him, and Merlin swirls to look at the man who uttered the words - "I'd not do that if I were you" – as does the brawny one by the bar.

One of the boar-men laughs. Threats? Against them? That's just show, empty words from a weakling's mouth. Another by his side says; "Don't meddle lad, if you know what's good for you."

The knife is near the plump woman's throat but she's incredible calm considering the situation, like having experienced it before. A slight bit of fear though flashes in her eyes. Merlin, on impulse, stands. The stranger with dark hair has already interfered, moving forward before the warlock has time to react. Grip firm on the toad-faced man's wrist, he – almost gently – forces the knife out of his hand.

"Now boys, there are other ways of solving this."

A cry erupts, "Wanna fight?" Then comes the fist and a choir of voices. The dark-haired man catches it inches from his face.

In a second, the whole room comes alive, some people rush to get out and others jump into the chaos. Fists, words, kicks fly along with a broken shelf and a chair and the leg of a table. Smashing against the wall, furniture is ruined and there's a man already wailing with a bruised cheek and another with a red-running nose - screaming bloody murder. Had a musician been present they'd begin some merry bar-brawl tune, the scene is perfect and Merlin could bury his face in his hands in an act to say  _Oh god no._

Merlin is already trying to avoid getting punched. Perfect! Right from the rain, into a fight. He'd prefer the rain. He's weak and hungry, his body barely cooperating. He'll get smashed and he knows that – unfortunately, some of those men appears to know that too. Crashing onto those weaker-bodied than themselves, the men tries pounding him and some stranger into the ground, but a bowl comes flying into their heads. Surprised at the rescue, Merlin sees the dark-haired man next to the plump woman, eyes flaring with spirit.

What's he going to do? Try leaving this disaster? Part of him wants to help, as usual, his conscience always demands that even if he really has no part in it. That stupid idiot, he'd acted just like Arthur, going right into other's business – _Oh right, who are you to talk,_ Merlin silently berates himself – as he looks at the dark-haired man. Who currently is grinning and throwing punches like it is an easygoing game. Happy, merry day.

A knife comes flying. How come, Merlin isn't really aware – he barely has time to react and on instinct, his eyes grow golden and the object freeze in mid-air. Briefly it hangs there, unsuspended, to the surprise of the brawny men right in front of the warlock. The knife never hits its target which would've been the dark haired man they attempt to hold down. Nothing, for a moment: then, the weapon falls and the dark-haired man twists out of their grip, breaking someone's nose as he goes: Merlin is already moving.

Merlin grabs his pack and runs, hoping,  _hoping_  that no one saw his glowing eyes, that none will react, realizing.. How stupid he was, using magic like that, right in front of those people! Had they registered, understood, what just happened? God. He's an idiot.  _Anyone_  would agree.

It includes a lot of dodging, but he reaches the door. Rain greets him, cold against his face. He'd  _never_  go to a tavern again. A bruise is beginning to form on his shoulder and he's still incredibly hungry, but it's over, he's out. He stumbles away, voices still angry in the distance. Thumping against the wall. Something about 'Never enter this inn of mine again!' or 'Fool!'. Nobody appears to be on his trail, loneliness has never been this much of a relief.

Which is why he's so shocked that he jumps and a short screams rips out of his throat when a hand lands on his shoulder. Magic swirls beneath his fingertips and he nearly releases a force like a river out of reflex – nearly, managing to stop it in the last moment hearing a husky but merry-like, friendly voice next to his own.

"Heavens! Didn't mean to startle you there. Calm down, friend, no harm meant."

It's the dark haired man, sweat running off his face with the rain. His chin is covered in stubble and hair wildly ruffled, he's grinning happy as ever, brown eyes glinting with energy, leftovers since the fight. Merlin finds his eyebrows climbing in surprise. "Why were you following me?" he blurts, slightly suspicious, "Weren't you busy fighting back at the tavern?" Almost like  _Are you all right?_

"Well yes, but I had some timely interruption..." A twinkle of eyes. "Are you just passing through?" There's still a lively fire in his voice, slightly breathless – it's obvious he's still got an adrenaline rush, could jump up and down for hours, hands fletching. "I didn't mean to follow you, but I was curious." Curious.

It's almost a lie - Merlin has just used magic after all right in front of him and the man  _knows_ , but doesn't seem to take the news badly. No, Merlin's power just saved his life, and he's grateful.

Merlin's heart is like a drum, thumping in his throat painfully, like he's suffocating.  _What if he's not what he seems_? rushes through his head, over and over and over again, and he can't stop his anxiously flickering gaze.  _What if he's serving Uther and plans to turn me in and that's why he follows…what if…what if? I don't want a fight..or to be followed!_  Each breath leaving and entering his lungs is jerky, but he manages to look relatively calm. "Oh…umm…I'm sort of in a hurry, I, I shouldn't linger." Go. Go. He has to go. Now!

"How stupid of me, haven't introduced myself yet." A trickle of rain runs down the man's throat. He raises a callused hand to shake Merlin's, grip firm, coarse. "Gwaine." The name's unfamiliar, but what if he's from Camelot,  _what if-_?

"… I'm, I'm Will." The lie slips off his tongue more easily than he'd thought it would, heart briefly squeezing tightly in his chest in remembrance of his childhood friend, departed, gone, because of a single, stupid arrow. "Is there anything you want?" His voice is rudely harsh.

"I'm heading for Camelot. Planned to wait for the rain to stop, but it appears going back to the tavern now would cause us both a lot of trouble, don't you think?"

Merlin nods. Like it's interesting but unnecessary information, like he cares somewhat, but in his mind Merlin is trying to think of explanations, half-truths which he dares tell. Should he response and say were he was heading, too?  _Camelot_? The thought of having someone to accompany him is very tempting, days are so lonely now and he hates solitude like nothing else. But he cannot trust – not…not now. He stares at the man's face – slightly grinning, friendly, a trimmed beard beneath brown eyes - in consideration. Fingers tingle – he can nearly accept the friendly, carefree offer.  _Come with me._

No. It's too risky. It's…it's… making his chest hurt and he has this silly desire to cry, but doesn't do it.

"It's been nice meeting you, sir, but I really must get going…" God he's hungry. Maybe he should hunt. Yeah, probably, one cannot live on roots forever… Weaponless (and frankly useless even if he had one) he has to use magic of course, but…The man's voice is already far-away and he feels his feet itch to step back, away, go, go. Forget.

"Of course." A tiny smile, hand resting at hip, the poise is relaxed and friendly and open, I'm no danger and mean no harm- that kind of thing, and it's terribly unsettling.

Go, please, go. He cannot make more ties, can't take it now.

"Perhaps we'll cross paths again sometime in the future, Will."

…Almost … as if fate steps in and makes a revision in its notes - Merlin pulls at the hem of his shirt in attempt to stop the shivers running down his spine – his mind filled with  _Destiny._ Then, he's stable again on his feet and alone and with only a dark road ahead, all paths leading to Camelot.


	3. XXI - XXXX

**XXX.**

Arthur feels slightly hopeful. By now, his father has more or less forgiven him for his "foolishness" earlier this year. The village with fire-incident is like a distant memory and the prince tries more and more to forget. By each day that passes, he becomes more and more engulfed by princely duties, training his knights, and talking with Gaius.

The old man has proven to be a helpful, subtle spy at the lady. Pendragon's own precious gemstone. Arthur is trying to avoid disaster, think ahead of the woman. When would she strike again, and how could he prevent it? A knife or magic or Morgause or an army, what'd be her weapon of choice - and the king, himself or whole of Camelot, what'd be her target?

It is useless however to make Uther listen, he'd tried so many times, the old resolute man is pigheaded to the point Arthur nearly beats life out of his startled knights during every session beneath heavy sunlight and splashing rain. No one complains. When he's looking or listening, that is.

* * *

**XXII.**

Another patrol has been found, lifeless pooling red on the forest floor. The searchers return crestfallen, eyes bleak with temporary sorrow although their faces are guarded. The king slumps on his throne and it's clear now that he's an old weary man with a wary mind and hardened heart: years of distrust wears down his shoulders.

"Are you sure? No survivors?...the knights?" Fractions of phrases and words, difficult to release.

Arthur is downcast, his father can see grief in his eyes, but his face is set stern. "Dead…all of them. Cenred's men trapped them in an ambush. There were fresh tracks there as well…we could not find any signs of sir Leon." Leon is one of his best knights, older and more experienced than the others – he's a good man, too, a fighter, survivor, advisor,  _friend_. Uther knows this too, and it's a great loss if the man is dead, but Arthur refuses to despair. "Father, we could send a search party. Chances still are that sir Leon is alive; he could have escaped."

But the chances are slim. A fraction of tiny, because Leon wouldn't back down from a fight, give up, flee. He'd fight to the death or till capture. That's another possibility – but Arthur doubts that Cenred's men would be able to capture sir Leon and stay alive for long. At least that's what he hopes.  _Survive_ , he sends at thought towards the ceiling,  _be alive._

There's something brewing. The court can sense it and worry has begun to slip down through the lower levels of the city. War is coming. Last time, the army led by Cenred, was pushed back – not fully defeated. Besides, there's still Morgana (and Morgause) to worry about, although only Arthur knows about that. No doubt, if the women's minds yet work as they did last time, they plan on something that'll endanger the life of whole Camelot, the citizens as well, but mainly him and his father. The king. Uther is still so blind… But Arthur doesn't speak. About it. Yet.

Uther sinks back into the throne – cold empty wood – even further and looks smaller than Arthur remembers him being. "Of course…of course. There's still a chance. Gather your men immediately."

* * *

**XXII** **I.**

She's sick. Nothing major, nothing sleep cannot wear off, Gaius assures, but the castle is worried. (Arthur isn't.) There are voices abuzz everywhere and the king sits by her bedside.

It's a sudden illness, striking her just a few days ago, crumbling her to the knees or so it looks like: the king, the king is anxious, leaning on her chamber door and hovering nearby all the time, with Gaius beside him, a reassuring voice: "The lady will recover." And the king says: "She must."So precious, delicate, fragile.

Arthur happens to walk by when he hears their lowered voices drift over the cracked-open doorway, into the empty hall, beyond which Morgana lies asleep, drifted into dark clouds of tranquility. He cannot help staying, silent and listening, because something heavy is tearing at his father's words and his heart, his heart tells him  _something_   _is going on._

"…something you must know. I fear that…that she already knows, Gaius. I am not sure how but  _she knows._ It is important that this is kept secret between us, convince her not to speak of it…but I worry for her…And if anything were to happen to me, or Arthur…"

Yet, his father hasn't called for  _him_ ,Arthur _._ This is something his ears are not meant for, but Arthur stays anyway, shying in the shadows where he's not detected. He can spot the two men by Morgana's bedside. Chest heaving in the darkness: when hiding like this, his wheezing breath is as loud as ever, hissing through his lungs: he tries not to breathe at all.

"Sire." Not a demand nor a question. A soft urging to continue, go on,  _You can tell me (it'll be a secret)._ The king hesitates, eyes solemn and frowning. Not like he's displeased, but apprehensive, and Arthur's mind is miles behind registering all this as Uther speaks:

"…Morgana is my daughter."

* * *

 **X** **XIV**.

A haze of voices settles into silence.

His senses doesn't return slowly and gradually in a blur, but quickly, abruptly, as he gasps and fills dry lungs with heavenly air. He feels…allured and blessed. Alive. Heartbeat, heartbeat, heartbeat.

Even if his memory is obscure – smoke, arrows, ("Ambush, ambush!"), glinting swords drawn, a horse crashing to the ground with its rider, the shrilling shriek and then the flash of a sword, bloodstains everywhere melting onto his cloak ("Run! They're too many!") - he  _remembers_   _it_. Intense pain unexpectedly stopping and darkness with tiny specks of light in it followed by deafening silence and no senses at all.

…  _dying._

The man, confused now, lifts a hand and looks at it – no damage, no blood, no scars. Carefully, he inspects his face, chest, arms, legs, body, but there's no injury – nothing at all, no trace of old or new battles. Someone's taken off the layers of his armour and red cloak, he's only wearing a white tunic with the king's crest on it, and is perched on a table-like slab of rock. Candles lit up the cave warmly and voices are nearby, but he cannot hear what they are saying.

He doesn't panic. He should, but doesn't. No, he's grateful and calm. He has an inkling of what people have saved him, yet he cannot feel hate or fear: because the druids…the druids are peaceful people, despite the years of plague that others had descended upon them. It is odd, but they are, it's something in their spirits maybe, in their hearts.

The smell of torchwood drifts about and voices nears the site, light footsteps on stone, echoing on solid cave walls, roughly edged, the ceiling like an ancient temple of prayed by nature decorated. The knights blinks and looks around, vision clearer than ever, and sees a cloaked figure materialize by an entrance not far away. The man smiles a bit, kindly, and tells him to relax – "We mean no harm" – and the knight asks, "Why did you save me?"

* * *

**XX** **V.**

Rain stopped hours ago, the sky's cloudy and light. It's in sight now, the city, and he pulls the cloak closer and thinks,  _Don't look at me, I'm invisible._

When he finally crosses the gates, his feet has never felt so light. He could practically scream with joy and dance on the step, armed with the knowledge that soon, soon, he's home again, because home is where the heart is; home is with Arthur.

* * *

 **XXV** **I**.

Arthur's heart beats in his throat, through his skin, through the shock of his core: 'Morgana is my daughter,' Uther has just said, 'Morgana is my daughter' -  _Morgana is my sister,_   _my sister, sister -_ Arthur feels the truth tremble in his hands and just like when realizing that Merlin is magic, he doesn't know how to react.

The wall is unsteady beneath him and he pushes up against it to hide as footsteps draws near, the king's words ringing in his ears and Gaius silent and understanding as always. He wonders if the old men can hear his thoughts vibrate through the stone between them.

Gaius and Uther leaves the chamber and Morgana to rest. Not noticing him. His stillness. Irregular, twisted pulse in his neck, arms, bones _. It can't be._  But it is anyway.

_Sister._

* * *

**XXV** **II**.

As day crumbles into nightfall, a single man returns; the king has barely managed to order a search party and quickly redraws the request when the blonde knight enters the castle, tired but alive, clothing bloodied but no injuries on his face. The man is in awe, something great shining in his eyes, and in wonder he tells of how he was saved by druids, druids of all people: those who should despise Uther and his men the most.

A life saved from the brink of death. Dozens of others lost. It's unfair, but it's not that which startles the king.

Arthur wears a stone mask, determined to not let Uther know he's overheard his words with Gaius. He acknowledge his father as usual, reacts in a timely manner and locks out the thoughts. Tries to, at least. (But does Morgana know too? ... She's been pale as a ghost lately. And Uther mentioned…Yes. She knows.)

"Arthur, sir Leon – I have a mission for you."

Morgana watches, unseen and unheard, from a corner, taking note of every word from the king's lips. Everyone else thinks she's still bedridden and ill and possibly unconscious, but the king's words are imprinted on the forefront of her mind.

* * *

 **XXV** **III**.

A frenzied knocking on the door interrupts the man's work and he gingerly puts down a few delicate bottles and tools, shouting, "I'm coming, I'm coming!" to whoever is behind that door. Young people, always so stressed. It has to be someone young. Maybe Guinevere? She's been looking so distraught as of late, poor girl.

He opens it to reveal a cloaked man - at least, that's what Gaius supposes it is - who hurries inside frantically whispering, "Gaius! God, it's been  _forever_ , is everything all right?" Long, pale hands slightly roughened at the edges reach out, grasping the handle of the door to close it.

The face is shadowed and the voice lowered so much it cannot be recognized. Eyes narrowing, Gaius looks at the cloaked figure, demanding; "Do I know you?"

The cloaked man whips around, and now the old man can hear his breathing, quick like from a long run, and then he finds himself staring at a very familiar face, weary and thin and cobalt eyes marked by dark rings caused by fatigue. Anxious yet relieved. The boy looks strangely old.

Without thought, the old man pulls his young charge into a crushing embrace, greatly relieved: Merlin hasn't had physical human contact for months and shudders at first, then accepts the arms, it's nice to be welcomed so abruptly and gods,  _he's missed_  his guardian-come-father so much.

"But what are you  _doing_  here? If anyone finds out-" Gaius says, voice hushed, but nearly shouting at the same time. Dread and hope mix on his tongue.

"I know, Gaius, I know," Merlin says tiredly and sinks down to sit on a nearby chair. Now the old man sees, his clothes are torn, and there's a graze on his left cheek. Briefly the young man glances at the door, the windows (blue eyes turn golden as the shutters are closed) and the room falls into shadow at the lack of sunlight. "Do you got any food? I'm positively _starving_."

"What about the guards? How did you get in here?"

Even as he demands answers, the physician scrambles through some cupboards and finds drink and bread, and promises to make some stew. The food is simple, but the boy eats greedily and is forced to slow down and take deep gulps of fresh water, to not strangle himself: thirst and hunger are quenched for a moment. When he's satisfied, the boy smiles a bit in thanks – not a wide grin with twinkling eyes like before leaving Camelot behind, but now he's more content and safe than he's been for months. He's back. Back. Home. If it were possible, the glow of his heart would shine through his skin.

"It was a bit troublesome, yeah, but I'm here and that's what matters. Don't worry, I'm not follower or anything," Merlin says, details will take too much time; he's going to leave soon, him being here endangers Gaius and Merlin would never want him hurt for his sake. "Is everything all right? You have to tell me, please, Gaius. About Camelot, Uther and Arthur and Morgana. Is she still here? And Arthur, is he all right, the idiot hasn't gotten into trouble has he? It's been months after all, please don't tell me he's dead or something stupid. Has…"

"One question at the time. Please, Merlin, calm down." A look is sent over the floor at the door, but there's no sound or movement behind it: it's safe for now. "We are all right; there's been surprisingly less trouble than usual. The prince has been crestfallen as of late and also more suspicious than usual…and I agree with him to be cautious. Yes," Gaius interrupts before Merlin can begin uttering the hundred questions that lay on his tongue; "we are surveying lady Morgana, as subtly as possible of course. (Yes, believe it or not, Arthur can be subtle.) The king refuses to acknowledge that she might be a threat. Quite the opposite, he is extremely protective of her, more than usual. I fear…We both fear that she will soon strike again, taking advantage of the king's weakness for her."

"What do you mean, 'more than usual', did something happen? You said nothing out of the ordinary happened! An accident? Oh god, Arthur has gotten poisoned or enchanted or something ( _again_ ), hasn't he!" He begins to grow bloody  _frustrated_ with all the side-tracking conversations.

"No, Merlin, the prince is unhurt and no magic has been used on him."

"Well, what is it then?"

The old man looks at him closely, like trying to weight options before realizing that the young man before him – a boy, one who should have a whole life ahead without these burdens – deserves to know. It's vital for Merlin's comfort and Arthur safety, which is everything to Merlin, the meaning of his life, Destiny. "It is a secret the king has kept to himself all these years and I only heard of it mere days ago, when Uther finally revealed it to me in person. He's worried that the lady knows or suspects it herself. But Arthur doesn't know. Merlin, Morgana isn't the king's ward."

This wasn't what he's expecting to hear (maybe an injury or an upcoming battle or conflict, but this?). So he leans in further, the solemn look on Gaius' face unsettling him. Whatever it is, it's bad news. Or at least not very good news.

"Uther is her father."

* * *

 **XX** **IX**.

Sir Leon, loyal to the end, bows and accepts their mission, only a handful of well-placed questions answered and the sword by his side sworn to aid.

"Very well, sire," Arthur says, bowing. "We shall leave immediately."

_The druids will not be happy to see us._

But, the prince has something he must see to first.

* * *

 **XX** **X**.

Her face lights up at the sight of him, so unexpected, in the dusk. Happy but slightly nervous and bumbling about, muttering apologizes for the mess (there hasn't been time to clean for days, she's so busy at the castle) but Arthur silences her with a smile, for the first time in weeks embracing her, arms around her shoulders. She's warm and he's cold – inside, like ice churning in his stomach – but Gwen melts it with her presence and assurances. When he reveals he must go and is vague about returning, she saddens and breath quickens and hands grasps his cloak, pleading Stay, stay, and he does - a little while longer, that's all he needs, what she needs.

"Come back, please, Arthur." She's rarely this weak but she's afraid, this sense of something terrible will happen looming above her, and Arthur feels it too.

"I will. I swear to you."

"Arthur I…" Briefly silencing, she bites her lip, but the prince looks at her in earnest and the fears blow away. This isn't the prince, this is simply Arthur and he's a man who she can, no matter what, trust, for her heart tells her so. "It's the lady Morgana. I do not mean any offence or harm, I swear and I, I've had much faith in her for a long time and it's hard to say this. But she's changed. I don't know what to do. It's almost like…" Those last words aren't uttered, but both think them anyway, there's no need to form them on the tongue.

"I know. Be careful, all right?" It should be the other way around, because Camelot is safe. It's where one should be safe, anyhow. "If you can…avoid her."

Gentle words spoken in the night: their conversation fade, they are content in each other's arms where it's warm. This is all they have, time and place and each other: every second ticking by toughens their grip. They do not wish to separate, not now. They've found each other again. For a moment, lips brush, the faint whisper of a kiss when they cannot promise with words what they wish to say.

Sir Leon is waiting outside and pretends not to know what's going on, pretends there are no feelings between the prince and the maidservant.


	4. XXXI - L

**XXX** **I.**

As he leaves later, fed and carrying an additional pack with the ancient magic book, which he'd longed to hold for weeks, he is dazed and his mind keeps churning and twisting and chewing on their conversation.

'If Uther dies,' Gaius had said, 'Arthur is the only thing standing between her and the throne.' Yes, Merlin knows that now, and he can piece together Morgause's plans now, see it in a clearer light. That is… if Morgana knows. Does she? Arthur doesn't (at least that's what Gaius said) so perhaps the lady isn't aware, just suspecting. But if she does, then Morgause will too. Then, they'd try again – attack Camelot, seize the city and castle and finally the throne, kill the king, kill Arthur.

Arthur is going to leave the city. The reasons are secret to the public ears, but Gaius can tell him about it, the king relies on the physician like half an advisor at times. Whatever it any mission is about it's dangerous and a recipe for disaster when Arthur is involved. The prince, alone save for a single knight, can get killed in numerous ways, hurt, kidnapped, enchanted… So Merlin's only choice is to follow. It'll be tedious, walking away again, but it is his duty to protect the prince. No matter the cost.

'They are to collect the Cup of Life from king Cenred's territory. Somehow it is connected to the druids. Sir Leon will follow the prince: apparently, the druids saved his life,' were the old physician's words. Merlin has stored them away.

The Cup of Life – it could only be the same thing which Nimueh used, years ago, on the Isle of the Blessed. So long ago it feels like a faint dream. He thought he'd destroyed it, but Gaius, ever-knowing, explained that the Cup is an ancient magic, indestructible, and if it were to fall into the wrong hands…

_So perhaps Arthu_ _r is guarded, but sir Leon – even though admired and skilled as a knight – doesn't have magic. He can't protect Arthur from everything._

Merlin mounts the saddled horse he's managed to smuggle out of the castle grounds, using a bit of magic and the shadows of nightfall (really, Camelot security needs a re-boost – he should warn Arthur, those dungeons too are quite easy to sneak out of). From behind, he hears voices and clattering hooves; he gazes between lines and lines of mossy trees and sees two riding figures – armoured – leave. There are no red cloaks on them and nothing marking them as habitants of this city or citizens of this king, only simple traveler's clothes and swords by their sides. The guards doesn't salute as they go, that's too obvious a sign that someone important is leaving; and Merlin keeps his eyes on the riders for awhile to make sure they are enough far ahead for him to follow without being seen. Maybe he will reveal himself: but not yet.

As always, a second thought lingering on the doorstep, Gaius had said while the boy was about to leave: "Be careful." And Merlin had smiled and answered, "When am I not?"

* * *

**XXX** **II.**

" _You have to let go, Arthur. Let go! You're_ _going to be king. A great king, sire, let go now, you're not alone anyway, you've got your knights and your people: I'm done here Arthur, destiny fulfilled. You're going to be a great king."_

The dream returns that night, starless while the knight stands guard and he sleeps. It startles him that he cannot move from it, push it away. This time, the images are clearer than ever: the voices dripping onto skin, his own, clinging to his friend, servant, guardian's hands.

" _Stay with me, fight damnit! Don't you dare die, you stupid blighter. I swear_ I'm goingto kill you  _if you do_ ,  _I swear, I swear!"_

And in his dream, while still shouting and surrounded by clouded enemies - Arthur fulfils his desperate promise.

* * *

**XXXI** **II.**

Five hours. Or maybe it was more. God, how could anyone ride for this long without pause and  _not_ feel like they'd lost half of their bottom? Well, Merlin couldn't, but doesn't dare stop. The prince and knight are too far ahead for him to really see them and they're far out of hearing range, so he has no idea what they're planning, if they're talking and if so, what about. He's no idea, follows anyway. Briefly he wishes he'd taken some more food with him, he's beginning to feel slight tugging of hunger at the pit of his stomach. He'll only have chance to eat and rest when the riders does, and really, knights thinks they're so tuff but this isn't sane.

They'll have to ride for over a day more to reach Cenred's lands and Merlin is slightly ill, something sick working up his throat, throttled up emotions on the boarder of physical pain. He's so near Arthur now – so bloody near yet unable to reach out (sunlight sometimes kiss the top of golden hair ahead of him), and it hurts, it hurts: he wants to scream and cry and run up there and hug the other man just out of joy seeing him alive.

Last night he was close to. Reaching out. Hands on his shoulder, "How did you survive this long without me, Arthur?" but he couldn't do it; if he tried, he might end up in some pathetic heap on the forest floor strangled by himself and nobody would ever notice.

Arthur doesn't know he's there. The concealment spell Merlin's placed successfully makes sure of that. It's not making him literarily invincible. It's more like nobody can see him, no matter how hard they stare, because it makes them unable  _to stare_  in his direction. He's looked through the magic book from page one to the last in search for something that'd hide him without draining too much of his energy. Once they find the Cup, Merlin swears he's going to drop the spell, if just to make Arthur glimpse him through the branches. He desperately needs to hear the prat's voice, even yelling angrily at him will suffice.

* * *

 **XX** **XIV**.

The ground is trembling with something sinister, thousands of feet, trampling down grass, leather-shod, never-ending marching: left, right, left, right, left. Endless lines of them, ordered and perfect; armours glinting dimly in the clouded sunlight. Valley filled up to the brim, like a cup.

"…How do you suppose this will succeed?" the leader, dark and tall but not so broad, faces the woman, who smiles. Something mysterious, ominous. She's a riddle: beautiful and carried by some degree of grace, merciless and plotting. Always plotting. And the king, the king is oblivious. What he wants is power and control: he needs it, the yearning worse than any lecher's desires, stronger than a starving man's hunger. The woman knows very well.

"Cenred…you have an entire army at your disposal. Do you not wish to take revenge on Uther?"

"I do this for you, m'lady, you know this. But your last plan backfired and hundreds of my men died."

"I promise you, king, –" Not  _her_  king, because she has none to obey but herself – "that no dragons will interfere this time."

The man gazes at her sternly. "My men are too few to beat Camelot's whole force."

"Numbers will not matter," Morgause guarantees, pearly white teeth in her smile, making it all the more sinister. After all: very often, foul looks fair. "The druids have what we need to make  _our_  army indestructible."

* * *

 **XXX** **V**.

Rest. Nightfall. He's been forced to drop the magical shield because it's draining far too much of his energy, so now he's vulnerable, visible, but alone. It's this forest: it feels old and almost eerie, full of magic, energy swirling in each leaf. It's probably the druids' presence breathing through it all: Merlin has a strong sense of not being alone.

As he looks around he sees no one and no lights. He's not dared to light any fire. It's silent…too silent. A few crisp rustles, cold air biting his skin. Are Arthur and sir Leon ahead just as disturbed, or don't they worry at all? Maybe they're oblivious as ever – Arthur at least – and walk straight into danger. This whole affair is ridiculously stupid, Merlin thinks. Yes, the Cup is important and if it's taken by an enemy before they reach it the consequences will be horrible. But the druids are, in general, a peaceful people. Is it so right to go into their territory and  _steal_? It might provoke them. Some druids are powerful. They might decide to attack…kill Arthur… surely not let the prince simply walk away! He and his men have  _killed_   _a large druid camp_ , men and women and maybe even  _children_  alike, damn it, damn it, the druids have every right to fear and  _hate_  (like Morgause and Morgana and a variety of people in-between, families, fathers, daughters, everyone grieving because of an old king's adamancy). Many druids died that day…

 _Because of me,_  Merlin has to remind himself _, I led them there. Inevitably. Unwillingly, even - but I led them there…_

The persistent rustling refuses to let go of his ears.

A choking nervous feeing works up his throat – it feels just like being watched. Again, he looks around, then slowly stands. He's got no sword or other physical weapon with him, but formulates a spell in the forefront of his mind as he moves closer to the source of the sound, the thick bushes left of that old, scarred tree. There's no sound of footsteps, metal or voices…

Should he raise the shield again and hide?

"Is anybody there?" Before he knows how to stop it, his voice echoes emptily out into the night air.

No response at first. Then, something echoing back: "…Who goes there?"

Out from the shadows, a figure – no, two – move: they come closer, long footsteps and the glint of silvery material (metal? A weapon?). The voice is oddly familiar, Merlin tenses up and hope he doesn't have to fight.

He musters that forceful voice, so old and powerful and somewhat fitting, hopefully there are no bandits sneaking around. "Show yourself!"

* * *

 **XXX** **VI**.

Darkness falls and after several hours' ride, the prince and knight decide to camp. No fire is lit, as they want to be discreet: while one man goes to sleep, the other sits b ythe edge to guard, sword rested bare across his lap.

Arthur has trouble resting, closing his eyes. He's had for the last few days (weeks even) and Gaius' tinctures only seems to worsen the dreams. Nightmares. Occasionally he sees fire burn, but mostly he just gets a huge pain in his gut and blood allover his hands.

He dreams of Merlin dying.

Sometimes it's he who kills him and sometimes it's someone else and sometimes, vaguely-like, it's a shadow hovering nearby. But always dying. Fading away, blood and fire. Always wearing that grin too: with his last breath, the warlock promises that _Everything will be all right_ and  _You're a great king (though you're still a supercilious clotpole) don't worry._

Very long hours pass though they're few. He'll wake Leon soon and try to sleep himself. Probably won't work…

Faint sound rushes through his ears – like water noisy in the distance, but not quite – maybe just a bird or something of the night. Nevertheless, his alertness twists and turns and he looks around. The sound fades away. Maybe it's nothing. …Voices? No. It must be his imagination. Insomnia.

…because that voice…cannot be here. It's impossible.

* * *

 **XXXV** **II**.

"… _Lancelot_?"

The man smiles. Merlin wonders what he's doing here and naturally, he asks. It's wonderful to see a familiar face after such a long time, talk, actually  _talk_  to someone else than his own shadow. The man-almost-knight also knows he's magic, and it makes him calm - even if the man's tailed by a dark-eyed stranger, hair ruffled and a grin on his face.

Lancelot speaks of wandering years and fighting and training. His armour, made by Guinevere, is in desperate need of polishing and has rusted at some places, clearly visible signs of old battles. He's wandered far and wide, fought side-by-side of men more or less honourable, at times living in distant villages like a simple peasant when trying to escape nobility and their prejudices.

And eventually, there's a bar brawl not too far from here mentioned, and Merlin notices how the until now unknown man remarks the event like it'd been done by him a hundred times before. "Wrong place, wrong time, wrong drink," the man explains, "but thankfully a fellow chap here decided to help me out."

Too noble by nature to mock anybody, Lancelot doesn't comment on that, but Merlin can sense the faintest roll of eyes, and grins. Then, the smile fades, as recognition hits him like a spear in the chest – rainy evening, a murky tavern and a good-natural voice asking for company – "It's  _you_!"

"Glad you remember me, Will," the man replies at the slightly upset cry.

"Will?" Lancelot frowns, lost now. He's not expected them to have met before.

"A misunderstanding," the warlock says quickly. "My name is not Will… I used it for cover. I'm Merlin."

"Nice to meet you then, Merlin. Any reason you're sneaking around?" says Gwaine shaking his hand, grip firm, and though the man's appearance might be suspicious, the feeling in his gut tells Merlin that this is a good-hearted man (if not with a taste for ale and fist-fights), meaning no harm. And if Lancelot is with him, it probably means that the two men has some kind of trust between them. The almost-knight had spoken of a fight; perhaps Gwaine felt a need to repay the other man, or he just likes company. The warlock doesn't think too much of it now, there are more important things at hand to focus on.

"But what are you doing here? I thought you were headed for Camelot," Merlin asks with a sharp look at Gwaine, who makes a slightly guilty face.

"I was. Actually, they had a quite good ale and beautiful women..."

"We heard that prince Arthur was absent," continues Lancelot. There's an odd, week-old stubble along his jaw-line and the hint of a scar on his wrist, Merlin is curious as to how it happened but doesn't ask. "I managed to find Gaius and he slipped where the prince was headed... Believe how surprised I was to hear that you were  _gone_ , Merlin! How come you were banished?" A brief pause. "…But there is not time now. When we heard that prince Arthur was not in the city, we decided to follow his tracks and see if we could help. It seems like an important mission."

"As always when it comes to royals," grumbles Gwaine, but he looks humoured, not sour. Merlin begins to lighten up but cannot share his humour yet, he's too worried about the prince and knight ahead of them: disappearing with each step.

"We got to hurry, we're in Cenred's kingdom so Arthur is in danger," Merlin says urgently. He can explain along the way why he's following the prince from this distance and why he's under a death-sentence. Later. "He and sir Leon were send to take the Cup of Life from the druids."

"You have my sword on your side." Lancelot's promise. "My allegiances lies with Camelot and prince Arthur."

The words are like a guise, but it surely is just Merlin's silly imagination (because Merlin's allegiances, he realizes, they're not with Camelot or the king or even the people even if he loves them, it's with Arthur and Arthur alone).

"Sounds like fun to me." Gwaine pats his shoulder, and unfamiliar gesture, but it's rather safe. In these few moments he's decided that Gwaine is trustworthy, good-hearted; a bit rough on the edges, maybe, but it's all right. He has a feeling that they'll soon need every ally they can get.

* * *

**XXXVI** **II.**

Night has crept by, dark hours huddling in cold blankets; finally they're on the move again, under a grayened sun. The forest grows danker the deeper they wander. In the distance, hoofbeats falls. They're shadows moving away but it cannot be helped as the knights ride and the warlock and his friends have no choice but to walk on foot. (Merlin dismissed Gwaine's "Can't you magic us along?" awhile ago, he's not a magical  _wagon_  for heaven's sake.)

"This is the ultimate game of hide-and-seek," says Gwaine after awhile, unnecessarily, but after that the air doesn't seem as tense anymore. "We mustn't frighten them away, having to start the chase over would ruin my day."

Merlin walks next to the man. He's used a spell to conceal them, like earlier, but now he has to shield four people and a horse, and he gets more tired than before. However, he refuses to let it show, it would only slow them down and it's not like he's weak-kneed and faint or ill, about to trip and fall. (Yet.) Figuring out how to allow the spell to make them see _each other_  had been slightly tricky, though. The other men weren't helping, clueless about magic as they were. They hadn't protested or arguing much when Merlin covered them with his magic: Lancelot had explained, to some extent at least, about him, that he's a warlock and doing magic is like breathing, necessary, natural. Even Gwaine hasn't made much of a fuss ("Is this supposed to tingle?") but it's how Gwaine is, taking it all in a stride.

To be this close to Arthur is reassuring. Well, now, Merlin could sit next to him, maybe even talk right in his ear, even  _scream_ , but the prince wouldn't notice, only get deaf.

"Do your know where are the druids hiding?" Lancelot asks; he's the kind of man who desires only the most vital facts and then with a bit of hope everything will sort out, he's courage going into something head-first not knowing really what to do, but it's all right.

Merlin shrugs lightly. "They move from place to place so I can't be sure, our only guide is sir Leon ahead who was there, but…I have this  _feeling_ …" Not of being watched. More like watch _ing_ , subconsciously, a mind's eye-thing, it's hard to explain. Much like the feeling he had when someone else of strong magic was nearby: a tingling, warmly spreading through his bones and unsettling him a bit. The faintest of warnings. Like a sixths sense. He's always had it, the ability to feel magical presences, and he's thankful, at least they aren't completely lost. "There's magic in this forest, all around. I can feel it."

"Is it sinister or good?" asks Gwaine. Light-heartedly.

Again, Merlin can only shrug and turn up his hands, one can't really define this feeling and this magic feels  _ancient_ , pure. Not created for one purpose but many, or maybe none at all. It fills the air he breathes and his lungs and his blood. He, a creature of the Old Religion, is aware he's unique being born of this power, and it surrounds this whole place. It fills each one of his breath.

"I cannot say. Magic cannot be defined as good or evil, it's a mostly a tool. Here it's…natural. This is an ancient place." A breath passes his lips, quiet but heavy, he's got a headache coming up.  _Must be the concealment spell…_  "We must be near the druids by now."

They round a patch of stone by the invincible path, a slope beneath them. As Merlin hushes, he realize how quiet it is and that birdlife has fled: it's odd. He shares a glance with the men by his side, the message sent by a nod.

"We're not alone are we?" Gwaine mutters, hand on hilt but sword not drawn. Yet.

* * *

**XXXIX** **.**

People linger on the streets, mingling in the evening-fall, but they're scarce and scattered. Servants bustles through the corridors with food and linen and other items necessary, footsteps huddled together, an occasional greeting or good-bye in their wake. Some servants have already been dismissed for the day, others stay to tend their masters or mistresses awhile longer.

The girl sits waiting, waiting is what she does now: lady Morgana has gone on an errand and Gwen isn't sure about what but lately has kept from asking too many questions. There's a piece of cloth across her lap, delicate and rich at the same time, it's a lonely lavender dress not having been worn for weeks and is in need of mending, but the needle and thread are left unmoving.

Arthur and sir Leon's leaving has all been hushed down and gwen has only an inkling of where they're going since the prince's visit, his arms around her and his voice in her ear, promising to come back. Like cobwebs, thick and tangled in every corner, there's worry interrupting her daily life: Gwen aches every day to see the prince again, to have him returning and hear his voice. With every hour, it gets worse, the feeling in her chest, like a foreboding of  _What if he does not return?_

But he has to. He must. He's Arthur and Arthur survives everything. Gwen truly wishes to believe this to be true, though she's sensible enough to understand that every mission is a danger, the risk overhanging like the ceiling of the king's great hall. Arthur, the man she loves – the sentence otherworldly because of all the wrongs of the fact, she's a servant and he's a prince – he has to return. She must see him again. Being held in his arms. A voice dripping into her ear. Anything. His presence makes her shudder every time and when he's gone, she misses him, misses him like she's missed no other: except for her father.

 _He's protected_ , Gwen thinks, trying to convince herself this:  _he's safe_. Sir Leon is a survivor too and loyal, strong, a fighter, willing to protect with his life:  _they will survive._

* * *

**L.**

Dark-armoured sword-bearing men swarm the hillside, spilling over the edges and where the knight and the prince stand in the creek they look very alone and outnumbered by far. Their weapons are already drawn, senses on alert, eyes flickering left to right to left again.

That's how they stumble upon their quarry, the warlock and his companions, just in the nick of time. Gwaine pulls out a sword from his belt and Lancelot's chainmail jingles dully like only chainmail does, heavily.

Below, the fight begins, clashing swords and the dark men is upon the pair from all sides, roaring through underbrush and trampling the grass, iron-heeled feet making noise as if coming from a smaller army.

"These are the kind of odds I like," comments Gwaine beside the young warlock, a grin spread across his lips, before charging. Merlin has no time to even call him stupid. The other man, not quite a knight, shares a look with him, before joining in too.

Arthur's just pushed away a heavy man, tumbling onto the forest floor, blood on his gloved hand, when the voices reach them. Briefly sir Leon's shoulder presses against his own before the knight moves away, from one battle to another, all concentration is on the opponent; Arthur doesn't feel it, only a warning bell ringing in his head and he swirls around ready to face another opponent. No blow comes. A blade pierce through chainmail and fabric and a man crumbles to the ground, but it's not the prince's hand who wields the weapon.

The newcomer is unfamiliar: no knight, yet no peasant (Impossible with that sword technique!) and no enemy – that's the important thing. A smile gets thrown his way, a flash of a greeting and Arthur can't argue. Without word, he and the stranger are fighting back-to-back.

Then there's Lancelot. It's been years since the prince saw him last and he wears a small beard which is not quite like him (he registers this and forgets it the same moment, preoccupied by battle) and metal glisten in sunlight, blood stains the ground and the only thing heard is the thump of bodies falling like lifeless dolls, wildlife fleeing and swords clanging. The number of dark-armoured men quickly drops – a slash to his right, another goes down – Arthur doesn't think. He doesn't have to think.

Merlin is useless with a sword, besides he doesn't have one, and he abandons the idea of staying back and watch. It'd be stupid and selfish. He doesn't have to hide – finally, he doesn't have to hide – for once he can actually  _do something_  without being death sentenced or forced to see someone else get the credit.

One of the last of Cenred's men (he recognizes the crest so well after that battle all those weeks, months back) raises a crossbow and fires. Merlin has a hand outstretched, though it's not necessary, and he needs not to utter words to slow down everything, the breeze, the blood pounding through his veins, the fighting men and the arrow, the arrow piercing the air – with his magic he grabs it and throws it off-course, into one of the enemies. Surprise fills the man's face, shock on the shot's, as he topples over, tumbling down, down, down.

Before managing to stop himself, his tongue's already created words spilling over his lips, a cry, a warning a bit too late or a greeting, it's hard to tell which – "Arthur!"

Arthur has seen many different things in his life, strange wonderful terrible things and at the sight, he's dreadful and ecstatic and so incredibly thankful: Merlin's alive. The warlock's eyes fill with gold.

And then it's over.

The clearing is a picture: three fighters and one warlock, gasping for breath, surrounded by bodies and stained leaves and the relief of surviving, a soft ruffling breeze adding to the stillness and incredulity painted on the ground.


	5. LI - LXI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Due to a mathematical failure, my plans of a 10-10-10 (and so on) pattern has in this chapter been broken. This chapter contains 11 'parts', not 10; and next chapter thus starts with 62, not 61; however that won't probably bother anyone but the author herself. The reading itself won't be interrupted by this._

**LI.**

Maybe he's hit his head and is dreaming.

Part of him want to react like this: grab Merlin by the scruff of his neck, shake him like a mother would her naughty puppy and demandwhat  _the_   _hell_  he's doing here, so near  _him_ , so near  _danger_ , when he should be miles away. Away, alone, _safe._

Another part of him trembles and shudders like a shipwrecked, terrified man; he could hug the bloody idiot (and never let go) and isn't sure, maybe thank him, before laughing and crying because  _Merlin is alive_. Before he was unsure, but now he isn't anymore. Merlin is alive.

When he moves, he moves his hand a bit upwards like a feeble greeting and his voice is slightly un-princely strangled as it comes out of his throat: "What are you doing here?  _Mer_ lin?"

_Is it really you?_

The warlock grins. His eyes aren't sunlit, instead a clear ocean blue, and his smile is as warm and goofy as Arthur remembers it and the whole scene seems so terribly real. It makes him  _happy_  and heart-wrenched at the same time and a bit relieved. Merlin sounds like his old self, if only slightly tired and bruised, and  _thank gods_ , he has no silly beard.

"Well, someone has to save your royal backside all this time."

Arthur is sure now that this isn't a hallucination.

* * *

**LII.**

"Sire?" sir Leon is confused, hesitating, awaiting the prince's response. They've just been surprise-saved by a sorcerer and his two accomplices after all: it's only natural to be cautious. The experienced knight recalls Lancelot – the knighting, banishment, the Griffin, a noble heart within a peasant chest – from years ago, but the other one is unknown. Suspicion brews in the air, in his lungs, but he keeps at bay from attacking. They have, after all, saved the prince's and his life.

And there's a sorcerer standing beside them, calm and with a witty joke on his lips. Sir Leon freshly recalls his doubts and fear and shock that sprung to life that day, months ago, when the boy first was arrested. Sorcery. Who'd believe? The boy was so clumsy and naive, loyal-to-a-fault, a simple manservant unable to handle a sword yet always following the prince on dangerous missions. Always – faithful to the bone (and brave too, a bravery the knights spoke of with admiration when nobody else was listening. After all, the bravery of a servant greater than that of a knight? Unheard of.)

Who'd believe? Heavens, who'd forget, when he rode off on a dragon's back? Albeit, even then, the boy had appeared …  _innocent_ , like in a childish-innocent-way, like he did not mean and never had meant any harm: there isn't an inch of evilness in Merlin, sir Leon has seen the boy's unfaulty heart in action in the past.

"It's all right, Leon," Arthur assures him, breaking through the knots of the knight's thoughts. "They're no enemies. You have my life on it."

"Reassuring," mutters Merlin. He looks relieved at the prince, happy, lips tugging upwards even as he grumbles forlornly. His face is dirty, and so are his hands, and what on earth has he been eating? – rats? – because he's thinner than ever.

"Sire," Lancelot says, slightly out of breath since the fight. Cenred's men are spread about their feet, still, bodies and cloaks bloodied. "It's nice to see you again."

"Unexpected, I'd say."

"Let me introduce Gwaine."

"Never thought I'd help a nobleman," Gwaine says, "but here I am. Life has its wonders, doesn't it?" Arthur is immediately at ease, because he has the sense that enemies look fairer and feel fouler. Perhaps this man is an ordinary peasant, probably not noble, nothing indicating that he is except for an awesome swordsmanship and had circumstances been different, Arthur would have invited him and Percival both to test their skill and, perhaps, become knights of Camelot. (Knights' Code be damned, if they're revealed to be peasants.)

"Did you stumble upon us by luck?" he asks.

A blue gaze flitters over to the warlock who, before the prince can speak, holds up his hands in an 'I'm innocent'-manner and says, "I just met them. Yesterday night. So, yes, but we tracked you."

"Tracking? You? Merlin. Tracking." Arthur gives him a disbelieving nudge.

"We heard from the court physician that you were in trouble," says Gwaine with a grin. Like meaning: So I was bored (and in need of an adventure) and picked up on the idea. Lancelot elaborates some quick details, of going to Camelot, in a shadowy way as he's supposed to be banished, and meeting the old man.

"Gaius?" Arthur exclaims. "Gaius told you? Why'd he do that? This is supposed to be a  _secret_   _mission_!" And he looks very pissed off, no one really taking pity on him.

"Oh don't worry Arthur," Merlin says. "It's not like he's proclaimed it to the whole of Camelot." He sounded a bit light-hearted before, but now his voice drops with uneasiness. "Does Morgana know? Did your father tell her?"

"No he didn't." Arthur's confused expression screws up in a grimace of realization. The young warlock shares that look, dismayed, and they suddenly understand that this might be some strategy of Morgana's: they might be paws in some game she's planned with her sister. Cenred's timely attack mightn't just have been timely by luck - while Arthur is away, no prince to protect the people and no warlock to protect the prince… _The king, the king._ "I can't guarantee she didn't overhear us."

The prince and the warlock looks at each other in silence, and the others do not really grasp what's going on. "Sire?" Leon asks again. "What is wrong?"

Still holding Merlin's gaze, which is strangely deep and old and powerful (what has he seen? Has his eyes always been like that and he hadn't noticed?), Arthur speaks: "The Cup. We must find it and hurry back to Camelot."

* * *

**LIII** **.**

Since the prince departed, there have been a higher number of disturbances. It varies from little things, farmers unsettled by their cattle gone wild, something changed in the air, the breeze, like a darkened sheet put over the landscape: it's a subtle change, like something is going on, and it isn't well.

The knights' training continues, but their attempts aren't as fiery as when they had the prince to instruct. The man's presence, despite the insults he might shout at them, is always a good thing. It presses them on and makes them do their absolute best, making themselves the winner.

Sir Pervical is truly, truly tired, he injured his wrist clumsily an hour ago and is grateful for a bit of rest. They are uneasy: the older knights quieter than usual, the younger ones unable to sit still.

The king has gone ill again. It happens every then and now. After the battle against Cenred's men...

"We could go to the tavern," suggests his companion, sir Gareth.

"It's not a good idea," sir Kay protests, "we need to remain alert. You have heard all the rumours in the city and coming with the patrols from the outer regions. You, as well, as I, _know_  that bad news are coming."

"A beer would be nice," Percival puts in.

"And what good would we go sitting in a corner drinking or singing and dancing on the tables like madmen? We need to keep the people calm and in order. His Highness' illness makes them all worry." Sir Kay has always been the voice of reason. He joined the knights years ago, before Arthur was in charge of them.

They glance over at the training fields, strangely empty with only clangs of swords and no shouting, impatient voice, no encouraging but yet rude words, no joking. Well the joking disappeared months ago, there's no servant around tripping over every patch of grass anymore.

"The next patrol should arrive soon from the south. Percival, would you...?" sir Kay asks.

"Of course." The young man scrambles off the bench, wistfully thinking how wonderful a cold ale and a trouble-free evening would be like.

Gareth grunts, reaching for his sword, checking his left gauntlet a second time because it has the tendency to slip; he'll go the smithy and have it fixed as soon as possible. Kay catches his challenging look and nods, and wordlessly they head off, weapons in hand.

* * *

**LIV.**

"So what have you been up to lately?" is the conversation that follows, when they make their way through the damp layers of the forest. The prince tries to sound casual and undeterred, but hiding this much emotion is  _hard_ , it's a wonder he's not done anything out of character yet, pulled Merlin into a hug, turned all emotional.

Sir Leon, Lancelot and Gwaine are a step behind, lookouts with weapons at the ready in case of danger, but the forest is quiet: the recent fight scared away nearby wildlife, apparently. Gwaine attempts to make conversation but no one answers, and sir Leon is still slightly suspicious but dares not oppose the beloved prince. Their surroundings are calm - footsteps, gently crushing leaves as they walk. The air smells of autumn, of crushed molten leaves and breezes seeking out every crack and crevice in the rock beside the path. They lead their horses cautiously through the thickening vegetation.

"Oh, you know," returns the warlock, waving his hand a bit animating his words: "I've been...around." He studies the prince out of the corner of his eye. His reaction.

"I hate admitting this, but it's been ... empty without you," Arthur says grudgingly, a depth in his voice which touches Merlin's heart immensely. Briefly, their gazes meet, an understanding:  _I've missed you, but now you're here and everything is going to work out fine. (..._ Yes _.)_

Merlin smiles.

"I've spoken with Gaius about my suspicions, of…her," Arthur suddenly speaks up, like uncomfortable with the current topic. Glances are sent over his shoulder, the knight and the two men behind them wouldn't know what he's talking about, but Merlin thinks he has an idea.

The smile drops.

"What…what did he say?"

"Oh, 'be careful and don't do anything too rash, are you sure about this?' In a more intricate way. He suspects her too but is quite careful. I understand him of course, if he was to be accused of being a traitor or worse...At least, without me nearby, he'd be defenceless even as he and my father are close."

"...Hope he's all right," Merlin murmurs. His meeting with the court physician had been so brief, he'd barely had time to really ask what'd been going on, if Gaius was hurt or in trouble.

"I. I'm sure he is," the prince mutters and quickly changes the subject; it is far too uncomfortable to talk about, well, family, also Merlin's family. "So. The Cup. Just how powerful is it?" Arthur says rather loudly, after ducking gracefully under a low-hanging branch which almost smacks Merlin in the face, startling the mare he's leading to nearly trample his toes off.

"You ought to know."

"I do?"

"Well,  _yes_ ," the prince rolls his eyes. "You're the warlock here, Merlin. You're supposed to know about that kind of things."

"If you say so." What he knows is what the old physician has told him, and what he found out through Nimueh so long ago, before he'd killed her. "It's-– it is the ultimate tool of life and death. It's got power to control the order of the world, between the dead and the living. For a life to given, a life must be taken, to keep the balance and...Yeah, stuff like that, don't think that needs elaborating. Gaius mentioned it once made an army immortal: a cost must've been paid, but I'm not sure what it was." It only made sense. To save one life, Arthur (and his mother and Gaius) years ago, he'd been forced to kill Nimueh in the end, to restore the balance – for Arthur, for one man to live. Then, Leon had been saved by it, supposedly – mustn't somebody have been sacrificed...? Mustn't they? And that immortal army how'd they do that? Merlin's brown knotted in a frown.

"Immortal? As in  _immortal_?" Arthur sounds rather impressed. (At first thought an immortal unbeatable army would come in handy.)

"Yes, can't get injured can't age can't die; that kind of immortal is what I'd call it, wouldn't you? Like that wraith de Dubois." And then he remembers that Arthur never has been told the full truth about the strange appearing black knight, raised from the grave by Nimueh, so long long ago. (He really wants to sit down and talk and forget everything happening right now, just to explain the past for Arthur so that he's aware just about what Merlin's been through these years when the prince was still ignorant.)

The prince simply frowns, and Merlin shrugs, like trying to push the subject away.

"Anyway, that's mostly what I know. I've only seen the Cup once, when at the Isle of the Blessed...when attempting to trade my life for yours, after the Questing beast incident. Not that you'd know, you were unconscious at the time."

Surprise shines in Arthur's eyes when the raven boy says those words, he has this very faint memory of that happening: the beast, that is, getting wounded, but he cannot remember anything of how he was cured. Back then, every time something wondrous happened, a life sent back from the brink of death, the explanation had been a myth and one of Gaius' terrible-tasting tinctures, the same old story. Gaius could explain anything with his books and knowledge. But most often, Arthur now realizes, it must've been Merlin. Foolishly attempting to save the day with his magic and quickly sneak back under his cover.

"So it  _was_  you. What on earth were you thinking,  _Mer_ lin?"

The Isle. The (cursed) Isle of the Blessed: an ancient place, known through myth through the ages for its strong magical core, its mystical powers. Arthur's brow creased in thought. That meant Merlin must've dealt with some other sorcerer (A druid? A priest or priestess or whatever they're called?) – they must've made a pact,  _no way_  the warlock could've found the Cup by himself. As Merlin opens his mouth to speak, Arthur shakes his head, "You're so incredibly dim-witted and idiotic, Merlin. It's a wonder you've kept alive for this long."

"Amazing. For an idiot. After all those rescues of your sorry prattish arse."

"Don't do it again. I mean. Risking your life for something... You know." The words are low soft and quiet, a carpet on the floor, but possessively warm. A sign: Arthur cares, and hates it every time his serv… _ex-_ manservant gets hurt, even remotely so. It's a stupid kind of friendship, but (to be honest) neither of them mind (but then, Arthur, honestly, would never admit such a thing.)

"I can't promise something like that," Merlin says defiantly, hotly, reminding them both that  _I'll be happy to serve you until the day I die_ and that that day may be tomorrow, next month, before this year ends or maybe in decades. He'll stay. He won't leave again.

The prince sighs. "That's exactly what I mean."  _You make me worry._

"Besides you're not a stupid cause to fight for. Well you  _are_ , but not in that sense of stupid. You're going to be a great king, Arthur, you're..." Merlin trails off, eyes shining with pride. "I'm happy to serve you until I die, I've told you ."

"Then stop rushing head-first into danger so your idiotic head may stay on your shoulders a bit longer ...please." The words start out as light banter but somewhere in the middle turns grave and slow, he's so serious that Merlin can't reply, only nod and swallow. (Because Arthur never pleads.)

A glade opens up before them, the faint trails ending at the mouth of a shadowed cave. Sir Leon confirms that this is it, and they enter, cautiously. A torch is lit in a corner, but the rest of the cave sits in darkness, clouded. No movement is seen or heard but Merlin can feel, feel the presence of the druids nearby. He tells Arthur to lower his blade, they don't want another fight today, but the prince does not sheath it.

"We and Lancelot shall go first. Leon and Gwaine stay behind, in case we do not return. Stay within hearing range," Arthur whispers over his shoulder and the experienced knight nods and draws back with the outspoken tankard-loving man, who has turned serious and quiet, it's obvious he know that he can't joke trough his life (but likes to do it anyway).

Gloomy darkness engulfs them. No lifesigns in sight. Only a torch is lonely glowing, a give-away that it's not an abandoned place. It's floating easily a few inches from the wall, up above the floor – Arthur shivers a bit, a strange tickling feeling creeping up his legs and torso and hands, it's this whole place, like a shrine filled with ancient powers.

The walls are humming of  _Emrys, you've come,_ a purr in the stone, the ground they thread upon, silhouettes unsteadily shuffling in the dark – they're not alone.

* * *

**LV** **.**

"Sister."

They embrace, lips briefly pressed against cheeks, the greeting familiar and comfortable. "What do you have to tell? Is it done?"

She smiles, nodding, happy to see her sister so proud: it is  _their_  pride and soon, soon victory will be theirs, along with total freedom. "It is. Uther will be utterly defenceless when the army reach Camelot's walls."

"Good. Men have been sent out, but unfortunately we haven't got any good news yet. It seems the princeling is better than we thought at hiding his tracks."

A frown finds Morgana's face, and she asks, in need of assurance, "But he is travelling alone with only a simple knights, isn't he?" And knights don't have magic to delude them.

"Yes of course. They have no magic to aid them."

"How can we be sure?" Morgana says, and her frown turns into something darker, eyes filled with the pain of having a friend's back turned on you; "It's possible that  _Merlin_  isn't dead, but helping them."

"He might be, but he is not match for us," Morgause soothes her. "He might be magic and even a  _Dragonlord_ , but remember that he is a simple peasant. What power could he have that we do not? How could we not be able to beat him?"

"We shall face him in battle?" Morgana asks, for she has not seen any of this in her dreams lately. The ancient bracelet given to her by her sister does its work well.

"We shall," Morgause confirms, proudly and confidently and she smiles: "And not without one more ally at our side. It is prophesied, after all."

* * *

**L** **VI.**

"Emrys."  _You've come._ Finally _._

Merlin shudders at hearing that, the implications of that single word, but Arthur looks confused.

"Who goes there?" the prince demands and whips out his sword again, earlier warnings forgotten or ignored. "Show yourself!"

"We knew you would come." The druid steps forth, but his face is hidden by a long hood like he's fearing to show it. He does not turn toward the prince, ignoring him and the armed man behind him, instead facing the warlock tall and thin on Arthur's right side.

"You did?" Merlin asks, surprised, but not as surprised as he should have been. He's seen enough odd convenient things in his life but cannot help asking. Curious – maybe this druid is a seer?

"Kilgarrah has spoken of this meeting." The druid's voice is firm and steady but has dropped, slowly, to a cautious murmur.

Several shadows flickers by in the dark, but it might only be a trick of the eye.

Merlin blinks, surprised. "Kilgarrah was here? When?"

At the same time, Arthur, hotly now: "What on earth are you talking about?" His sword is lowered, this isn't a threat and anyway they mean no harm: he's got his hands fisted against his sides, impatiently. He hates being out of control, out of knowledge, not knowing what's going on.

"A mere fortnight ago, my lord," the druid says. To Merlin. ( _Lord? What? When did that happen?_  Arthur wonders sceptically.) "Pay heed to this warning: The Alliance shall soon be formed; as the third sun falls, you must be ready for their onslaught, Emrys: both the sword and the shield must be strong to prevail, and stronger still must be the hand that wields them. Those are his words. Remember them."

That dragon would have some explaining to do (though it's doubtful he'll get something useful out of it, the beast always riddle and riddle on and Merlin sometimes wishes he'd get a straight honest answer out of him sometime. Well. In the future, maybe.)

He focuses again on the cloaked man before him. The attempt of a tiny smile fails, instead his tongue forms words before he manages to think, really. The druid nods, an acknowledgement, and smiles beneath the hood, only so briefly revealing his face, old and tired. Wrinkled hands – but his voice is young – holds out something, the object is plain at first sight but then the ancient inscriptions and spells become visible, words weaved into words. Merlin can read and understand them, shivering at the profound heavy meaning.

"I will remember," Merlin promises.

_When the_ _third sun falls? I don't even know what the overgrown lizard means by that! How will that help me protect Arthur? There isn't more than one sun..._

"Arthur Pendragon." The blond startles at the sound of his name, having been staring at the warlock trying to figure out the riddles spoken by the druid; they made no sense at all. "You have come seeking the Cup of Life."

"I have," Arthur confirms and finally lowers his sword. "Where is it? I demand it to be given to me."

"Arthur," Merlin chides.

"Fine. It's urgent that we are given the Cup, to protect it from getting into the wrong hands. So, if you please..." He holds out a hand, the tone is warning, an Arthurian I'm-stronger-than-you-are-surrender-or-I'll-fight-you voice.

"There's no need for anger. We know," the druid says and holds out a (surprisingly small) object wrapped in informal brown cloth, an offer which the prince takes without hesitation but with a respect in his eyes, on his face. He doesn't show it, but the Cup is magical and strong to the core, he feels its energy vibrating through the layers of fabric beneath his hands – it ought to be respected.

No thank yous are uttered: what should they thank for, anyway? Somehow, receiving the cup is like receiving the forbearing of disaster, and it makes Arthur tense like a bowstring. They begin to head back, withdrawing slowly but no threats are made, no enemies jumping out of the dark and as a handful of bright rays of light hits his skin, Merlin turns his back.

" _Wait, Emrys."_

The voice startles him, it's soft and quiet and eerily reminding him of the druid boy Mordred whom he'd helped saving once – long ago – the boy who Merlin refused to have killed. Now years later on, he's starting to get a tugging feeling of having made the wrong decision, but it's too late now. Too late for many things.

Only he is able to hear the man's voice and the others have briefly stopped to look back at him. What are you doing, what's holding you?is asked without words, Arthur's sharp blue eyes on his neck, a frown etched onto his forehead. C'mon, hurry, we got to hurry.

" _The Cup is your duty to protect now."_ Duty. Destiny. (A collar and a leash.)  _"Remember the warning we gave you."_

He will protect it, he's already decided; he's going to keep it away from the hell-bent-on-destruction-sisters, evil sorcerers, the old king and anybody, everybody else. It's got a power far too great to be misused.

"Come on, hurry up, Merlin. Merlin?" Arthur says impatiently, a strain on his voice.

Keeping the intense gaze, the warlock nods, no words are formed but the druid seems to be pleased anyway. Relaxed. Assured, by his presence and the prophecies which they've known by heart for so long now, that are finally on the move,  _assured_  it's going to be all right (at last). Maybe they see that Arthur is close to stepping onto his throne, fulfilling his destiny. Frankly Merlin is frightened of what will happen then – will he be useless, or shall he stay at Arthur's side, how will it play out? What should he do? – when Arthur is made the Once and Future King.

There's no time to let the mind linger too far into the future.

So takes a Merlin step up next to the prince and tries to look as certain as possible, a tiny smile at the corner of his lips, begins to walk, shoulders squared. The men have swords at the ready, just in case. But when he glances back at the cave, it's dark like dusk and there's no living thing in sight, all lights gone out. The druids have crept back into their secret silence once again.

* * *

**LV** **II.**

"So," Gwaine says - he's proved to be talkative and friendly, joking at lighter times (and serious at times too. Not now though, there's too much odd things on his mind), sometimes to the verge it drove the others infuriated. Like when Merlin told about his magic, the man asked and asked and asked (he likes asking probably more than hearing the answers) "–Lord?"

"Dragonlord, actually," Merlin supplies. They're riding the same path they came, but have to share horses since they only got three. Arthur, prince and prat, refuses to share his saddle with anybody (except maybe Merlin, but...not unless there aren't any other alternatives) so the warlock has let Gwaine jump up behind him. Lancelot shares with Leon, riding in the background at the prince's orders. The horses don't like it but it's the only option they have right now. They're lookouts, silent, reins in a tight grip.

"Sounds fancy, milord."

A grimace crawls onto Melin's face, lips twisting downward. "Please don't call me that."

"What's wrong, milord? Doesn't my oh so humble humbleness please you?"

"My name's Merlin. Simply Merlin," the warlock says exasperated, raising his hands in gesture to emphasis his words. "I'm no kind of nobleman. My heritage doesn't have to do with the title the druids gave me."

"Ah, but you're a dragon _lord_  aren't you, and you said something about  _heritage_. So, could you summon a dragon? Is it difficult? Has it a part of your magic?"

"Maybe I'd call for him right now and let him eat you," Merlin deadpans.

"That won't be necessary. I swear, I'll behave. Honestly." Gwaine holds up open palms, a sign of peace. "...But Merlin?"

" _Yes_?"Perhaps he really should call for the dragon and let him eat this strangely annoying man (but really, Merlin wouldn't want to hurt him, he wasn't  _that_  annoying, only a bit ... enquiringly curious overmuch). Fine, but he could always offer Gwaine as a snack if Kilgarrah became unruly. Yeah.

"How'd you become a dragonlord?"

Briefly, a pause, a falter in his step. Then, "The ability is inherited from father to son. Through death."

"...Oh."

Arthur has gone uncharacteristically quiet in front of the pair. But he listens. For a moment, when hearing the sadness in Merlin's voice, some deep kind of sorrow almost touchable even as the words fall flat between them, he has this odd urge to turn around and show his support, show that, well, he  _cares_ , maybe by embracing Merlin or patting his shoulder. But he doesn't know how, he's never supported Merlin like that, emotionally or whatever, it's not what a master does to his servant – hell, when did he becomes so keen on helping Merlin anyway and showing him appreciation? Friendship? (Not that they're master and servant. Anymore. No, really not. Besides Merlin is a terrible servant. As soon as they come back to Camelot he ought to officially sack him.)

"I'm sorry for you loss."

"...It's...It's all right."

"How did it happen?" The previously light happy tone is replaced by seriousness, depth, Gwaine's face falls into shadow when he asks.

"He...There was a fight. We were in Cenred's kingdom, soldiers attacked...He took a blow meant for me."

Gwaine looks away. Not really away but ahead, far into some dream, a memory or distant landscape nobody else knows about. "I lost my father too. When I was a young boy. Perished in battle, I think. But it he was long ago. Ma' was devastated, of course."

"I as well lost my parents at a young age," Lancelot speaks up from behind and Arthur begins to wonder why this conversation had to turn so heart-aching; he thinks of the mother he's never known and the father who's fading into a paranoid mass of flesh and bones, thinks of how much he's never known and that he's never bothered to find out about anybody else's past than his own before. "My village was attacked...few survived. That was my call to become a knight. I trained for the sole purpose of fighting for those who can't defend themselves."

Arthur doesn't comment, thinking;  _They died in battle, swords and arrows and steel, but my mother, my father ... (madness, magic, sorcerers)._

Sir Leon is too  _tactful_  to verbalize his thoughts.

Merlin says, "Looks like we have more in common than we thought."

Day passes into nightfall – their destination yet hours away.

* * *

**LVIII.**

When Percival finds them, one of the men has an arrow through his back.

"What happened?" he demands, a sudden authority coming to his voice he didn't know he had. Blood is allover the mare's coat, a corpse draped over her back – the other knights are better off, but their horses are exhausted, dripping with sweat and frothing. All tiredness leaves Percival in an instant at the gruesome sight.

"Ambush," gasps a survivor, "Cenred's men. They were over a dozen in total."

"We must report to the king!"

The knights slide off the backs of their horses and a stable-boy, pale as snow at seeing the men and the dead, stumbles forward to takes the animals. He's paid little heed, the man gather their fallen comrade in numbness, it's too early to grieve.

"Here, help me carry him," sir Bors says from a lifetime away. The dead man is heavy and Percival glimpses a familiar face staring up at his own, pride written on it to the last breath, it's a horrifying moment when he realizes that it's a former mentor of his, one of the earliest knights he's know, and he wants to spill bitter tears at the cruel way the man has been ripped away.

"Come," sir Bors mutters, "we must tell the king." And dig another grave.

* * *

**LVIX**.

_When the_ _third sun falls._

He's been mulling it over for hours, what it could mean. The warning Kilgarrah sent him evidently is important and he hangs onto the words, but what they mean, he isn't sure. 'The alliance' could only mean that several enemies are rising together o face him and Arthur, that much is obvious. It has to be Morgana and Morgause (and possibly king Cenred, but Merlin has this feeling that that king is being used as a puppet) – but then, their alliance has already  _been_  formed and the druid spoke of an alliance that  _has yet_  to form.

Merlin tries to think, think, old words and voices and people echoing in his head, has he met this enemy or is it someone knew and does he even know their name? Over the years, Kilgarrah and others (but mostly Kilgarrah) has spoken oddly of events that later has come true because of Merlin's decisions, and then of people, of prophecies and death and downfalls.

" _You must let the boy die, else he shall be the downfall of Arthur."_

Can it be?  _Can_  it be?

"Merlin?" And someone speaks, breaking his concentration. It's Lancelot. "Are you all right?"

The threads slips through his fingers, invincible thin silk, so smooth he can't feel them anymore. He sighs. "...Yes. Yes. Just...thinking."

"You did. I must say I highly doubt you to be capable of such a feat,  _Mer_ lin," Arthur cuts in, gleefully in his own princely way.

"Dollop-head."

"Idiot."

"Clotpole." The banter is half-hearted; Merlin's head is still heavy, fingers grasping toward things he cannot reach.

"Do us all a favour and shut up."

This moment now is like a piece of the past: it's simply the two of them, no titles or prejudices or magic or war. Easy companionship: this is where they belong, side by side, equals (even if they're always denying it).  _This_  is what they've been missing.

"Oh but then if I did, who'd remind you not to be a prat?"

But it feels kind of empty and hurtful. Because sometimes they miss the past but it's impossible to go back there and change it all.

"I think you'd miss me if I stopped being a so-called 'prat'. Which I am definitely not."

"You just said—you just confirmed what I said! Admit it, you're prat," Merlin throws his arms out, emphasising his point. "You're speaking no sense at all. Saying one thing meaning another."

"Now you're acting ridiculous, Merlin," the prince rolls his eyes and kicks the sides of his steed, quickening the group on their path and the conversation falls away, Merlin lowers his hands and gets that solemn look back in his eyes.

_When the_ _third sun falls you must let the boy die, else he shall be the downfall of albion arthur your stupid clotpole._

* * *

**L** **X**.

"It has been three days since your men were sent," Morgause warns, "yet you have nothing new to tell me."

"My men are skilled, trust me, and will find them. If you helped with your magic..."

"Help? You have no idea what I offer you, Cenred." The witch unseats, stalking up to the grand chair where the king sits leant back, wrists splayed on the armrests. Her face is like a mask, and she is a master of concealing emotion and, most of all, intentions. Oh, how all the kings are all so blind! "I have power which I have proven, and countless times I have helped you. How was it not when Uther was driven mad and Camelot was left vulnerable and open?"

"And then we failed," the dark king counters, "because of  _your_   _sister's_  mistake."

"You do not know whom you are talking to! How dare you insult my sister!" Morgause's eyes flare dangerously. "She isn't to be blamed."

"Then whose fault was it? Those weak knights? My men? I think not." He looks at her deliberately, judging, this time she's not playing charmy and this time he's not playing he likes it.

" _That stupid servant boy,"_  Morgause hisses, more in thought to herself than anyone else. Then she speaks up again, meeting the king's stare and holding it, a prison, and Cenred is captured by the golden orbs, cannot look away.

"Uther might be stronger now than earlier, but he's still feebly weak and the prince is out there all alone. If you can't find him and the knight, I'll do it for you." And then he'd have no army anymore.

* * *

**LXI**.

"What's that?"

They've stopped just briefly to water the horses, and Merlin has taken the chance when being able to stand on stable ground to open his magic book. It's very old and worn, there's a tear at the left bottom edge which he hasn't noticed before and maybe it happened on the journey here.

He doesn't have too high hopes, but this book has saved his and other people's necks many, many times and though containing mostly spells and the occasional magical brew, maybe, maybe he'll find something on solving mysterious riddles or prophecies. It's strange he's never thought of it before.

Arthur is standing over his shoulder. The prince is trying to look disinterested, with a  _I don't care really but must check you're not doing anything silly_ -look on his face, but there's interest burning in his eyes. He still view Merlin's magic, of which he's only seen a fraction yet, as foreign and dangerous but is sure Merlin wouldn't hurt him using it. So the warlock is no threat in that sense, which makes it all right for him to be a bit curious.

"It's my magic book," Merlin explains; "it's helped me save you several times."

"Has it? Let me see it."

"You can't read it anyway, you know," Merlin says but lets the other man scan the pages. It's true, in Arthur's eyes the unfamiliar language is mostly gibberish but it looks quite beautiful, and the drawings – of creatures, herbs and odd coloured lights – are finely detailed.

"What are you looking for? There aren't any magical beasts around need slaying."

"I'm trying to find some guidelines, or whatever, to solve what the druid said. Kilgarrah's words. Honestly, couldn't that dragon be a bit more precise and stop talking riddles..."

"Hang on- dragon! Kilgarrah is the dragon!"

"Err, yes."

"And exactly how long have you been talking to that thing?"

"Oh. Well, you see, when I first arrived at Camelot I heard his voice in my head and somehow I knew where to find him...I followed his voice down to beneath the dungeons and-"

"Oh god," Arthur moans with head in his hands, "no wonder you're so...so... You've been talking to a bloody dragon and been doing magic all this time without me knowing – what did it say anyway? Let me guess - some nonsense about you with having to protect me for me to become king without dying first, and you staying with me is your destiny and stuff? God help me."

"Er," Merlin says, "yeah. Destiny. And stuff."

"Did you stay just because of that? Because the dragon told you to?" The prince looks down at him, a depth in his eyes, he's fearing that Merlin will nod and say, Yes, what'd you think? and walk away.

"No! At first, maybe. Most definitely yes, in the beginning, because you were such a prat. But then things...changed. You changed, I,  _we_  changed. Then after awhile rescuing you from deep magical peril became habit and I couldn't bear the thought of leaving you, it'd be...wrong."

The words are so honest, Merlin's usually pale face is slightly flushed and there's no way in hell he's lying about something so passionately. He fully believes in their destiny and them, their ability to unite the lands and for Arthur to become a great king – together, they'll face and overcome every obstacle. The prospect warms Arthur's heart.

"Good. That's...good."

Merlin smiles, even brighter as Arthur pat his back in comradeship and sits down beside him. "We got a few more minutes until we leave, so you better hurry up your reading. What was that warning anyway?"

The warlock looks thoughtful, tapping his chin. "I think I've figured out part of it. There'll be a battle or fight, and we have to be ready for it. Obviously we must work together. Sword and magic. And then this alliance, it must be one of powerful enemies, magical people – Morgana, Morgause..."

"The druid said 'will be formed', that it's not actually happened yet," Arthur recalls, musing: "but it's logical that Morgana and Morgause already have united their powers."

Merlin lowers his gaze from Arthur's face to the book in his lap, the text swims in front of his eyes. "...I know." He has an idea though. An idea he's not fond of. It's so wrong, wrong that magic can be so evil; he doesn't want to believe it. Perhaps he's just being naive. But...

_When the_ _third sun falls you must let the boy die, else he shall be the downfall of Arthur and Albion._

"There's nothing," he says, flipping through the pages, not really reading them because he's heard about prophecies so many times and times over and times again, it's only what his heart can't accept that he needs to realize. "I guess riddles are meant for brainwork rather than reading a book and hoping to get a straight answer."

"Then I should be the one to handle that."

Merlin's eyes glow gold as he magically drops a bucket-full of water from the nearby stream on the prince's head, and Arthur splutters and swears, the warlock grinning fondly. "Prat."


	6. LXII - LXX

**LXII.**

The scene is uncannily familiar, despite the rain now falling around them, making the rocky ground slippery:

The men, clad in dark armours, cluttering the hill rushing downwards at them, swords drawn, war-cries ripping out of their throats – Arthur shouts a warning, sir Leon is shaken from an uneasy sleep and Gwaine, who's been on guard, is on his feet in two seconds. Lancelot has already grabbed his sword.

It's about thirteen of them, thus more than in the previous attack but still, Arthur is surprised they're not more because they are doubtlessly after the Cup. If Cenred had any idea of the real value of the artifact, he'd send half of his army (although hopefully, they're not waiting around to the corner to mangle them) to get it. There's no time to ponder though, figuring out Cenred's strategies have to wait.

He meets a soldier head-on with Merlin beside him.

Before, Merlin has always waited to the last minute when no one was looking to speak the ancient words but now he can simply lift his hand, shouting a command like he's known it all his life and a handful of attackers are flung back by a gust of wind, like dolls thrown into the trees. Their necks snap like twigs; the warlock doesn't look away even if he wants to, his face is slightly pale but stern, jaw set, and there's something very powerful about him like an aura which none of his companions have seen before. Arthur looks at him then, and Merlin sees fear in his eyes – truthfully Arthur hasn't seen much of Merlin's magic and in action, it's impressive, it's  _dangerous_. And he's glad he's not made himself the warlock's enemy.

Gwaine twists a sword out of his opponent's hand and kills them with their own weapon. Sir Leon and Lancelot blurrily move in the background, quick and agile and they beat anyone they face – there is no need any more for Arthur to act (which is both a relief and annoying, he likes to fight in battles, not just  _watch_ ). He is surrounded by strong allies. Merlin doesn't even  _need_  to chant, his magic reacts anyway and Arthur sees him properly fight for the first time, hands empty and eyes golden, and he has to make himself not flinch.  _Merlin!_ he thinks, mind tinged with disbelief –  _Mer_ lin!

… _Well,_ Arthur thinks then; _he always was rather useless with the sword anyway._

Within a minute, they are alone again, the enemy soldiers sprawled out unmoving, most of them without any mark, no blood and no bruises.

"Well, that was easy," Gwaine says fittingly, brushing his brow with the back of his hand, and chuckles. "Any of those tricks you're willing to share, Merlin? They'd come in real handy."

Merlin shakes his head, breathing in, out, in. "Unless you happen to have some secret magic already in you, it'd take years of studies and frankly I don't think we have the time."

"I don't think this will be our last fight before we reach Camelot," Lancelot says, changing the subject when Gwaine sighs disappointedly. "If they are after the Cup, they will not give up so easily."

"I fear you're right," Arthur agrees and sheaths his sword. "It's less than a day's ride left. Camelot better be whole when we return."

They still are unsure what to do then, Merlin dislikes the thought strongly of having to stay behind and let Arthur go again.

Gwaine copies the prince's move and grabs the reins of his horse, muttering; "That'll give them plenty more ambush opportunities than I'd appreciate." He turns his head to look at the warlock, who's preparing Arthur's horse, a habit. "You sure, Merlin, there's no fast way of learning magic? Something like passing-powers-onto-someone-else spell. You know, just in case?"

"You are only saying that out of envy," Arthur remarks dryly.

"Nonsense." Gwaine flashes a smile, his teeth oddly white for a commoner.

* * *

**LXIII.**

"This has been going on for too long. If it's a war he seeks, he shall be given one."

The king's face is grim. Gaius, who usually partakes in court meetings and have always acted advisor though it's not his official title, stands, bowing his head. "But sire, can we be sure it is a wise move?"

The weight of the king's gaze is heavy enough to let all other advisors' shoulders slump and eyes lower, nobody protesting or trying to make the king see other reason than this, but the physician stands firm. "It is not unknown that king Cenred owns a much larger army than Camelot. We are outnumbered."

"Then what would you have me to do?" Uther growls, defiant, and leaning over the long table slightly, his eyes burning. "His men are surrounding us. Almost every day we receive reports of killed knights or sudden, unexpected ambushes. There is not a single doubt what he is planning. Should be sit back and let him do as he pleases, taking no action until it is too late? Nay, I will not let this happen to my kingdom. Camelot shall not crumble before him."

Gaius hesitates, to formulate his thoughts. All of his life he has advised caution; it's something he has been taught and lived with, survived by. And if there is a war, sooner or later, people will die. "We have not yet fully recovered since the last attack…"

Those words, urgent, a reminder, makes Uther blanch a bit, his facial muscles contract in pain. "I will say no more," he says casting a last look at the physical, who bows and takes seat again. "I want Camelot prepared. When Arthur returns we must be ready."

* * *

**LXIV.**

"Is it true?" Gwen gasps at seeing Gaius' darkened face. Rumours are already flying wild and as soon as she heard the news, from a page boy, she'd hurried here. "But, we haven't repaired the whole city yet. People are still grieving, and we haven't enough knights. Isn't there another way? Can't a treaty be signed?"

She has been sent away by Morgana early yet again, the lady assuring she was all right; there were no more duties for her, so she has helped the physician about, tidying the chamber and helping the patients and running the errands the man's old body grows so tired of. The sun rose just a few hours ago, she's rarely had such a long time to go without paid work, to walk around freely. What use would there be going back home or the smithy? There was no one there to talk to. She was afraid of being alone now, with her father forever departed, Arthur away and Morgana more distant with every day.

"I'm afraid not, Gwen. Uther is right, though. If we wait, Cenred will still strike. If we are the one to make the first move, we have a greater chance of surviving," the old man hums, beginning to prepare a poultice at the cluttered desk, sorting through various bottles. The room smells of herbs and candles.

The maid sinks onto a chair and looks longingly at the window, at the rain drumming against it, and her hands flicker worriedly in her lap. "…I wish Arthur was here, he'd keep Camelot safe," she murmurs. "I hope he is all right."

"Do not worry, child," the old man says and smiles. "He is very stubborn. Now, could you please fetch me some of that rosemary? I have to prepare something for sir Bors, he has been complaining about his aching back again."

* * *

**LXV.**

When the white towers of the city comes into sight, all but Merlin breathes out simultaneously, and he breathes in sharply, a hiss of memory, There's no turning back now.

"Merlin, it'd be best if you stayed here," Arthur says and before he's managed to complete the sentence, the warlock is face to face and shaking his head. "No. I'm not leaving your side."

"But you're under prosecution orders!" Arthur exclaims, looking at him as if the warlock was slowwitted and couldn't understand the implications (which, Arthur could imagine was _possible,_ he  _didn't._ Or at least chose not to care about _._  God, Merlin had absolutely zero self-preservation.). "If anybody sees you—"

"Don't worry, Arthur. I'll…be in disguise."

"You really should stay outside the city. What if you get caught?"

Merlin snaps his fingers. "Magic."

"Honestly. You really cause too much trouble for yourself." With a sigh, the prince turns away, they got no time to argue and the warlock is so bloody unyielding. If Arthur ordered Merlin to stay, chained him to a tree and hell, even if he placed an enchantment on him to trap him there, Merlin surely would find some way out of it, to follow Arthur around. He always did.

"Lancelot?"

The exiled man bends his neck in acknowledgement."Gwaine may go into the city, but obviously I cannot, sire. I will make camp a few miles south for time being."

Arthur returns the gesture of dipping his head. "I shall know where to find you."

"Sire," Leon speaks up, "what shall we report to the king?" He has sworn no oath, but already decidedly, solemnly, to not reveal Lancelot's forbidden presence so near Camelot, and definitely not Merlin's (what good would come from telling the king anyway? Nothing but panic and pain and chaos as soldiers would be sent out to arrest the boy and the same thing that happened those months ago, would happen again.)

"We found the Cup, given to us by the druids, thus completed out mission without any greater trouble. We were attacked but could handle it finely without any damage, but unfortunately, as we were attacked Cenred's men obviously know of our presence and their king must be looking for us. On the way we ran into no one but the enemies which we've slain."

"Sounds good to me," Gwaine grins and dismounts. "I'll hang around with Lancelot." The brown haired man bows to Arthur and nods smiling at Merlin, saying goodbye, then turns around and begins moving south. Merlin quietly mutters a protective spell under his breath, not sure if it will hold for long but it reassures him a bit. Just a precaution, really.

"So we split up," Arthur says, finally. "Merlin - make sure you are not caught by the guards or anything. I'm not in the mood to drag you out of a cell just because you're acting klutzy and stupid."

"Hey!" Merlin protests, "I'm not that clumsy! Or stupid! Clotpole."

Arthur ignores him, and they begin to trek down the hill, the warlock, the prince and the knight. Gwaine leans against a tree watching them leave.

Before they are out of sight, the prince twists his head and says to Lancelot, "Meet us tonight in Gaius' chambers, right after sundown. Be subtle about it." It's just a safety measure: he likes having allies near. And they cannot have Gwaine unguardedly drinking his merry way through the city taverns, accidentally spilling…secrets.

* * *

**LXVI** **.**

"Good evening, sire," Gaius greets obliviously. "I hadn't expected you back so early. Have you spoken with your father yet? I hope you haven't encountered any misfortune during your mission."

Arthur's face is unreadable. "There's something I need to confide in your care before that." And he roughly grabs the now suddenly visible young man beside him by the arm, the supposed shadow against the wall twisting into skin in the candlelight. Gaius gasps in surprise (he's getting to old for these things).

"Ouch!" Merlin whines, has Arthur ever realized how strong grip he had? That would leave a bruise. "Let go, you prat!"

"Last time I did you almost got run over by a wagon," Arthur mutters back angrily. Concealment spells had their ups and downs and as usual, Merlin hadn't looked out at all for himself, acting as if he was invincible or something. Which he isn't, in Arthur's opinion, no matter his magic.

Sir Leon is waiting just by the door, again, pretending not be aware of any words in the room.

"Sire!" Gaius gasps, aghast, staring at Merlin, then– " _Merlin_!" Disapprovingly.

"Keep him out of trouble. More  _guests_  will come at noon. An annoying man with a cloaked companion," Arthur says unfazed by the reaction, the horror on the old man's face mixed with relief. (Guests? Cloaked companion? An annoying man? What had they run into on the road?) The prince finally releases the warlock's arm, eyes flickering briefly to the windows (the shutters aren't closed), and turns toward the door.

"We need to make a plan. We think Morgause and Morgana mean to attack Camelot," Merlin says to Gaius after the prince's gone, taking seat. "Is there any food left? I'm really hungry."

* * *

**LXVII** **.**

They had returned – surprisingly quickly and unharmed – the prized Cup yet in their possession. The prince acts so oblivious, so obedient but  _oblivious_ , before his father, and Morgana doubts that Arthur, the fool, actually  _knows_  of the Cup's true power. For how can he? Uther only thinks it to be a magical thing to be locked inside the vaults and Arthur, well, he couldn't care less. He'd not dare indulge in magical lore. He is too much like his father.

If he'd encountered any druids on the way, Morgana assumes he's killed them. The thought of his sword brandished and bloodied makes her boil with anger, frustration, if it wouldn't ruin their plans she'd kill the king and his son right now to avenge not only the druids' death, but her own despair, the pain the king – her father – has caused.

Uther stares at the item presented in well-hidden fascination and well-shown distrust. "Make sure no one can reach it ever again," he instructs his son. "You'll be in charge of the guard."

"Yes, father."

 _Oh Arthur_ , Morgana thinks from where she stands beside the king's throne,  _you're a fool, just like Uther. It is obvious that neither of you are meant to be king._

* * *

**LXVIII** **.**

"…then the druid told me Kilgarrah left the message. I think I've figured it out, but, I'm not sure," Merlin finishes his story around a spoonful of stew. Gaius' cooking has never tasted this good ever and he could eat the spoon as well. The physician is too relieved to have him back unharmed to scold him for talking with food in his mouth.

"Yes, but what ally could Morgana and Morgause seek?" Gaius muses. "They could possibly manipulate various kings into war with Camelot, Cenred most likely, as to his last attack."

"It isn't Cenred. I mean, he's allied with them, but I doubt it's him the dragon was talking about. He's got no magic has he, he's really not that powerful, he has an army of men but the real power lies with Morgause."

"Then who?"

Merlin pauses. "Do you remember the druid boy?"

"The druid boy?...It was such a long time ago, I scarcely can recall it. The one Morgana hid in her chambers? The very one you helped to hide? He had a sword wound (you're not a physician, Merlin) in his shoulder."

Merlin nods, the memories suddenly very sharp like a knife's edge, the sword wound on the boy's arm, his rather pathetic attempts at healing him, glass breaking violently at a lowered axe, the voice silky in his mind. "…I've sensed and seen him after that, both in and outside Camelot. I think… Look, it makes sense - his father was killed by Uther, his kind is hunted by the king. He wants revenge just like Morgana and Morgause. And he's not weak, his magic is powerful, I could always sense that."

"Nothing like yours, or even Nimueh's, surely," Gaius reminds him in a cautious murmur.

"Does it matter? They'll try and destroy Camelot, kill Uther and Arthur. That's their only goal. United they're strong. Question is  _when_."

"'When the third sun falls.' It is rather obvious when you think of it."

"Huh?"

"Sundown, sunrise…It's not in three days, then the dragon wouldn't have spoken about  _falling_  suns, but rising ones. It's in-"

"In three nights! Three nights after they've met or united, set whatever pact they got…" Merlin's eyes grow wide, as the words sink in, he drops the spoon into the bowl with a splash. There's no way of knowing if that moment has already passed though, if Mordred has met the sisters or if they're still strangers, if there is he's got no time to learn the spell. "They could be on their way toward Camelot  _right now_!"

* * *

**LXIX** **.**

"Arthur!"

Gwen is a flurry of kisses and soft arms embracing him, and she smells of sunflowers and smoke from the smithy. "I feared you wouldn't come back."

"Don't worry," he says, holding her there in a warm embrace. It's sorely needed after his talk with his father, nowadays he always feel so stiff with worry and frustration after seeing the king; the man is so cold, so withdrawn now. The last attack on the city has left deep scars.

* * *

**LXX.**

Cold crescent moonlight filters through the window, nighttime silent on the doorstep; every once and again, she glances at the silvery glass before her, waiting for the words to come.

' _Sister... It is time.'_


	7. LXXI - LXXX

**LXXI** **.**

It's so easy to fool those stupid guards. She knows every way around the castle and no one notices her as she walks toward the royal chambers with a confident stride, the cloak casting long shadows in the torchlight. In her right hand she clenches to a mandrake root, black and dripping, wrapped in a piece of cloth to conceal it from view.

When reaching the king's chambers, her eyes gleam golden, the lock clicking open when she murmurs the ancient word. For a brief moment she pauses, but nothing moves or stirs, no footsteps are coming her way – so she slips inside the room, snarling in disgust at feeling such a presence embedded in the room, the presence of the man she hates.

They are all so  _stupid_.

This time she will succeed.

This time, she won't let some stupid servant boy come in her way.

* * *

**LXX** **II.**

"Camelot is quite impressive, yeah?" the man with dark unruly hair remarks glancing at his companion. The latter isn't cloaked, but has dirt partially smeared over his face and hands (being covered by a cloak in these times would look too suspicious; he even, somehow, managed to convince the dark-haired man to also cover his hands with dirt and ash, to look as if they have travelled and worked for a long hard time before arriving at the city. Gwaine refuses to hide his too handsome face like his companion, though. It'd be "a shame".)

Lancelot doesn't want uncalled for attention.

"Indeed it is," he says quietly, remembering how he felt the first time he saw the city, years ago, when he was young and hopeful, unaware of the Knight's code, that he couldn't be knighted because he's a commoner.

Keeping a low profile can be difficult with Gwaine around. He really likes eyeing the young women who are running their errands, approaching them smiling and saying something that makes them a bit nervous, blushing at the attention. The third time it happens – the woman is pretty and has her dark hair tied in a knot – Lancelot rolls his eyes and forcibly drags Gwaine away. At this rate they'll never reach the court physician.

"But the ladies are so beautiful here," Gwaine complains when the other man grabs his arm and steers him away from the woman. "And I've heard the tavern is very good. Wonderful ale."

"Maybe another day."

"This just isn't fair. Explain to me one more time why I agreed to this?"

"You're mine, Merlin's and – dare I say it – even prince Arthur's friend and we value your help highly. And your life, by the way. Besides," Lancelot adds after carefully looking around, lowering his voice: "the Cup is very important and dangerous is the wrong hands...We need your help. All of us are involved in this now."

"Yes, yes, I know that. So we're to stay here and protect it and the princess from the bad guys?"

Lancelot sighs. It's not that Gwaine is stupid; the man definitely isn't, but he is so...so, Gwaine-ish. Laid back and taking it easy and womanizing and grinning slightly all the time, except when he's fighting; then he's ferocious. And his sense of humour ... had prince Arthur just heard what the man called him, he positively would react badly. This is such a Gwaine-ish way to handle a situation.

"Please, Gwaine, just keep a low profile until we reach Gaius."

"That lady sure was  _very_  beautiful. I didn't even manage to catch her name! What a pity."

* * *

 **LXXII** **I**.

He's used to darkness, looming across the stony walls around him.

Before it had been his prison, the item of his loathing, much like the tyrannical king Uther (such a foolish man, so shortsighted and arrogant! - an ignorance, which shall be his doom, his undoing) - now however the cave-mouth is wide open, sunlight streaming through, landing at the tip of his tail: it is freedom.

It is freedom.

This taste.

After slumbering he can take a single leap and fly anywhere. The world has limits but they are wide and faraway; where one sky ends, the next begin, ocean upon ocean, land by land – he's free, his soul not confined to a space so small, so suffocating.

Camelot is out of reach, he can't disobey a Dragonlord – but he has no desire to go there. Oh yes, yes, he is so tempted to once and for all rid the world of Uther Pendragon and other men like him; unfortunately he cannot disrupt the working forces of the world. It is not his place.

He was sense it, deep tremors in the earth the air – a beckoning. The humans caught up in this play must be truly unaware what it means, the dragon muses, but he is not naïve or ignorant. He feels and he knows. It's only a matter of time before the Dragonlord and warlock (perhaps, hopefully, alongside the once and future king) knows as well and calls for him. And when the time comes, he shall answer.

_It will not be long now._

* * *

**LXXI** **V**.

Her heart leaps of joy at the sight of the man. He's disheveled; hair matted and dusty, his face has just been quickly cleaned to be presentable before the king, but dirt are etched on his hands. His chainmail looks heavy, and he looks tired, but his shoulders are squared and Gwen hasn't seen a sight before which made her so happy.

He looks directly at her, Gwen's heart surges and she smiles shyly. He nods slightly in acknowledgement, before saying good night, and it takes a couple of seconds for her to gather her senses and courtesy.

* * *

 **LXX** **V**.

"You weren't seen, were you?" Merlin asks as he opens the door to two very dirty, ragged-looking men.

Gaius isn't back yet from some errand. Were he present, he'd have a fit seeing the state of the strangers. Their shoes are all muddy. Merlin considers magicking the floors clean before Gaius comes back.

"I can fetch some water if you'd like to wash off," Merlin offers when Lancelot scratches his chin, his skin itchy.

The man shakes his head. "It's not necessary. We must be on our way soon anyway."

"Some food would be nice, though," Gwaine says while looking around the room, which it littered with bottles and books and other odd items everywhere, his eyes shining like a child's by a merchant's stall. He whistles low. "This place is quite impressive. Is there anything magical among these gadgets?"

"Not what I know of…" Merlin could sometimes faintly sense magic within objects, but Gaius kept few of those things here. Mostly books, though; which no one was feeling bored enough to open. Some volumes hadn't been read for years or decades, simply lying there gathering dust. (If Uther found out he'd have a fit. Magical books in his kingdom…!)

"There are some leftovers from dinner," the warlock says and searches a cupboard until he find two bowls and wooden spoons. The men take seat and eye the food suspiciously; understandable, since it's some grayish goo which Merlin calls Idontwannaknowwhatsinthis and Gaius calls porridge. "It's not much I'm afraid, I'll see if there's any bread. Arthur should come by any moment. Bet he's stuck in some boring meeting with the king."

* * *

**LXXV** **I** **.**

In the middle of the king's tirade, Arthur has to hold off a sudden sneeze.

His father regards the Cup of Life full of distrust, but there's something in his eyes, almost fascination. Arthur pretends to be oblivious, like he doesn't care or knows about the Cup's powers. His father most probably knows, or has a vague idea. Why else would he be so eager to claim a magical object?

On the left side of the king stands Morgana, hanging onto every word; the king only allows her presence, not guards, not servants, only the three of them standing in the middle f the large stone hall. Her face is pale and guarded. He avoids looking at her.

After the meeting, after the Cup has been taken down the vaults, Arthur goes to his chambers to change. When he bumps into Guinevere who is running an errand, arms full of fresh linen, his heart leaps, he hasn't seen her for days and just begun to realize how he's missed her.

"…Sire," she says, bowing, but he smiles gently: "Just Arthur."

"I—I'm glad you're back," Guinevere says. "Are you all right? You aren't injured, are you?"

"I'm glad to be back. No, do not worry, I'm fine."

For a moment, they stare at each other, but there are other people nearby, servants on errands and guards on duty, he cannot risk her hurt by displaying affection openly: he can imagine the wrath of his father were he to know. He can only settle for saying good evening, dipping his head, smiling in what he hoped as a way to tell her it was all right, that maybe they could meet again soon. He's missed her…

The handmaiden smiles and courtesies, before continuing down the hall. He can't take his eyes off her, gaze lingering until she's out of sight. Then he rubs a hand through his hair and continues to walk to his chambers, heart beating fast than earlier.

He orders a servant to prepare a bath and fetch a meal: he's hungry, tired and sweaty, and would rather just fall into the bed and sleep, but duty calls. Hopefully Lancelot and Gwaine would manage to get into the city without being discovered.

After bathing and eating in a hurry, he dresses ( _Yes,_  he quietly thinks toward Merlin who can't hear him: _I am capable of dressing myself._ He has this odd need to retort to the plaguing silence) and, as inconspicuously as possibly, makes his way toward the physician's chambers.

* * *

 **LXXVI** **I**.

"Mordred?" Arthur asks, looking at the warlock oddly when he mentions that name.

"Yes. Do you remember him?"

He frowned. The name rings a bell somewhere but it's been chaos the last few days and he hasn't gotten any proper sleep yet. "Enlighten me."

"That boy dark-haired we saved the first year I worked here. He was a druid boy. Morgana and I hid him, but you helped him escape."

"But… he cannot be more than a boy. And you're saying he has allied with Morgause and…Morgana?" It's difficult to say her name without choking on emotion.

Merlin looks for a flash sad and conflicted, a deep grief which fits more on an aged weary man, his eyes looks so different – old eyes on a young face – but then he nods, and looks normal again. "Yes. The riddle the druid gave me made things clearer. And Kilgarrah spoke from the beginning of his alliance with Morgana. Back then I was … I don't know; young, foolish, naïve, benevolent. I couldn't believe it, that the boy would be evil and that Morgana was a witch. Of course I wanted to help him."

 _Like the rest. Only wanted to help them._  Then it got such a tangled mess. Maybe he should have begun to help Morgana right then and there, at soon as he understood she's a Seer. Should have told her it was all right and helped her, supported her.

Thinking about it makes his chest and neck burn in shame. The knowledge that he could have done things  _better_  earlier is painful, bitter, lingering for years to come.

"That bloody dragon again…!" Arthur mutters, pretending not to notice whenever Merlin spoke  _her_  name. "Are you absolutely certain?"

"Positive."

The dragon had said that the boy would be Arthur's downfall. He cannot tell Arthur  _Mordred is prophesized to kill you._

Merlin doesn't know if he  _should_  say it, or if keeping quiet will be something he'll regret later. How can he say it in Arthur's face when he's sitting there confused over late regrets and betrayals and truths, when they got enemies on their heels and are unsure of what to do? Is it fair to tell a man you know his murdrer?

Lancelot and Gwaine - who have been listening intently for the past hour, when they've discussed the Cup of Life and magic and evil vs. good among many other things concerning Camelot – joins conversation when Merlin falls quiet. "Who is this Mordred, sire?"

"A boy. Maybe ten summers old, at most, when I first met him. His father was a druid; he was caught and executed when the two came to Camelot. The druid boy escaped and later I found out that … Morgana and Merlin had been harbouring the boy, secretly planning to let him escape once his wounds had healed. I should have given them to my father for judge, but could not. She…Morgana…was close to me, and Merlin's well – he's Merlin. We had to find a way to smuggle the child out of Camelot."

"So you stepped in and saved the day," Gwaine summarized.

Arthur sighs. "Not quite. I nearly had in mind of killing Merlin for his foolishness… But it was just a child. I couldn't let a boy be executed for crimes he hadn't committed: even if he's magic, what evil can a child do? So yes, I took him out of Camelot with some (somewhat reluctant) help from Merlin, took him to the druids."

"But why would he want to harm you?" Lancelot asks with a frown. "You saved his life."

A heartbeat of pondering silence: the room is suddenly very dark, darker than the night around them, the candlelight dimmed like they're being watched and suspicious of everyone and Arthur glances at the warlock beside him, Merlin's face has darkened. Those blue, old eyes; haunted, lonely, thinking about pasts and futures. Arthur wonders what goes through Merlin's head, if he really knows the warlock or if another person altogether is emerging from the young shell, someone older and more powerful, someone dangerous.

"Uther killed his father and many others of his people. Grief, anger and lust for revenge are dangerous things," Merlin says quietly. "Sometimes it makes us do things we later regret."

* * *

 **LXXVII** **I**.

The man is old, stern, and has been looking forward to going home once guard duty was over and the last thing he feels is shock as she whispers strange words he cannot understand. She leaves the body as it is, slumped and cold on the ground, eyes open beneath the helmet. The man's quick reflexes made him draw his sword and it clatters against the stone as it lands limply beside him, hand frozen around the handle. He was one of the best, having been a guard for years, but he had no shield against magic.

Finally she can use the spells her sister had taught her. She has been itching to do so, longer to prove her power.

The vault is well secure. So Arthur thinks. Those men – a dozen of them, motionless and pale on the floor – those heavy locks, unbreakable they look, those thick bars. She smirks. How can they stop her? How can anything stop her? She stretches out a hand toward the heavy lock, the last one to separate her from the item she's after.

" _Tospringe."_

The Cup is covered, hidden from sight, but she can sense its raw power. When she touches it, a spark of energy makes her shiver. This  _power_  in her hands, all hers to harness. Everything was going to plan.

From within a fold in her cloak, she pulls out a mirror. Muttering a spell over it, the glassy image of herself is replaced by that of another woman, blonde and beautiful.

" _You have it?"_

"Yes, sister."

" _Good. I will meet you where we agreed."_

* * *

 **LXX** **IX**.

A bed. True, it's pretty hard, the mattress is thin and rats and other vicious little creatures have probably been at it, but it's many times more comfortable than the ground. He collapses on it.

Lancelot and Gwaine had planned to leave after their meeting, but decided to stay until next morning, there are no beds but pillows and blankets, and food waiting for them in the morning. Arthur had more or less insisted. Anyway, it feels good to have them near. To know they're safe and not in some dark, dangerous forest or the city dungeons.

For the first time Merlin feels just how tired he really is, his bones weary. After struggling to put on a nightshirt and pull off his boots, it's easy to fall asleep.

* * *

**LXX** **X.**

The last few days have been vacant, slow: training, eating, sleeping is most what sir Percival has done, half an ear listening to rumours again. The prince has just come back, the king is relieved, but no one knows whatever mission the prince had. The servants says he's gone to fetch some mysterious treasure or strange secrets, maybe find an ally, while some says he's just been on a hunting trip and do not really care. Percival tries not to listen to any rumours, his superiors have said it's bad form, but it's difficult when the king is absent and the prince is his,  _their_ , leader. Without oth him, the king and sir Leon, who is prince Arthur's right hand, it's easy to be unfocused, unsure of what to do. He guesses that all the knights always have depended on the prince's advice and presence and have been uneasy. The prince hasn't come to train with them yet: he is probably resting form his journey.

It's then the panic comes.

In the morning half a patrol rides back, rushing through the gates, distressed calls and broken bodies. Another ambush: two men are dead, a third severely wounded. Percival meets them in the courtyard, helping one off his horse.

"It's an army!" the leader of the patrol, Bors, exclaims. "We must alert the king!"

"An army?"

Percival shudders, horrified. The king has acted colder, more stoic than usual, the year's food has been scarce and resources waning, there are still many injured and grieving men from the last battle. He's young and called naïve, but he'd unsure if they can survive another battle. They have so few men left to fight!

"It was hard to determine their numbers, for we were discovered and had to flee, but they ride under Cenred's banner. We need a physician…and a priest."

With the help of some servants, the wounded men are transported from the courtyard, to the physician's attention while another burial has to be prepared. Percival runs off at his elder's orders. He has to alert the prince and the king.


	8. LXXXI - XC

**LXXXI.**

Arthur wakes at dawn. He's slept deeply and well for the first time in … it must be weeks, but rouses to a feeling of foreboding. He lies there in bed for awhile staring at the ceiling, expecting a servant to barge in ("Rise and shine!") but laughs dryly, shortly, more like a cough, when he realizes that of course Merlin can't just prance down the halls of the castle without getting executed. Just because he's back, it doesn't mean things are back to normal.

Yesterday night after the meeting with Merlin, Lancelot and Gwaine, he had a lot to think about. Old acquaintances turning to enemies. Life-long friends becoming foes. Allied and ready to attack them. Merlin seemed to have figured out the riddle warning that the druid had given him, much thanks to what a certain bothersome dragon had told him in the past. Like all this was a puzzle and they were onto the last few pieces.

Still. It's like Merlin's hiding something when mentioning the druid boy, the look on his face, the darkening of his eyes…He's telling only part of the truth, and Arthur definitely doesn't like it. What is it? What's he hiding?

He thought for ours, stared out the window. Wondered about the future. If - no,  _when_  - the Alliance of Three (Merlin's idea of a name, not his: the name had stuck though) attacked, they had to be ready. But to counter magic with magic, they only had Merlin (and most possibly the dragon) to their aid. Merlin says he's rather strong though  _how_  strong, he's unsure. Can he really beat three sorcerers together facing him? What if he can't?

Merlin also figures they would be using the Cup, maybe knowing how to deploy it to make their army stronger... maybe even immortal. Well obviously. If it's as powerful as the warlock says, anyone would want it. Is that what the alliance will try to do? Come to the city and claim the Cup? Or just come and fight, kill his father, kill him, kill all who aren't magic? Either way there will be struggling and bloodshed. He has to gather men and get the city ready – but how to do that? His father maybe won't allow it. Even if he did, he would demand to know why…why this suspicious, this knowledge? (A conspiracy, the king would mutter, a conspiracy of magic, it's evil and dangerous: we shall not associate with it.)

Arthur pauses in the middle of dressing, fisting his jacket. He has to tell his father. The truth. How can he accuse Morgana without getting himself imprisoned? And if his father gets to hear about Merlin…No, he can't tell that. He won't let Merlin be welcomed back to Camelot by the executioner's axe.

* * *

 **LXXXII**.

"Sire!"

The cry greets him as he walks out of the large doors leading to the castle. It's that young knight, Percival, Arthur recognizes. A strong feeling of  _danger!_  overcomes him, screaming in his mind. Something is terribly wrong. His fist clenches, itching to grab the sword.

"Sire! The scouts have returned, but two are dead! An army is moving toward Camelot!"

Arthur's blood turns to ice, he anticipated this, all since yesterday night, when they spoke about the Cup, the Alliance. Maybe all since the first failed attack by Cenred. Not welcomed it, but expected it. But to hear it come true so quickly is worrisome. The city is not ready for an attack. He's been away, but knows the number of his knights (two dead? Who? Have others died while he was absent?) and soldiers. They'll have to move the people to safety, prepare for a possible siege; gather men, weapons and supplies. There's so much to do and little time.

They need  _time_.

"Under what banner do they march? Do we know their numbers and location?"

"King Cenred's, sire. We are unsure of their numbers, the patrol was attacked and nearly annihilated, and couldn't estimate…Sir Bors say at least a thousand, but we are unsure. They are two, maybe three, days away, moving fast. It's like they have appeared out of nowhere!"

Two days, two days. He had to warn the people immediate, no matter the state of his father. Look over their supplies, weapons, men. All able-bodied men were to fight, he decides: if it is indeed an army of thousands, it's necessary. Two days: it's nearly not enough time.  _How come we didn't see the army until now?_ he thinks, dreading the answer:  _Magic_. Are Morgause, Morgana and Mordred allied with Cenred?

Morgana. He had to see what she's up to, and see to the safety of the Cup of Life. First, he'd give orders, then fetch Merlin…

"Sire, what should we do?" sir Percival asked, hiding his nervousness.

"I want all able-bodied men gathered in the courtyard. Send for sir Leon, he is to overlook our weaponry, and see to that all soldiers are armed. Send also for sir Bors, I must speak with him."

"Sire, we must alert the king!"

Arthur's face grew grim. "I shall speak with him. Now, go. Ring the warning bell."

* * *

**LXXXI** **II.**

Someone is shaking him awake. Bleary-eyed, Merlin blinks, looking up at the face greeting him, it takes a moment to remember where he is and what he's doing here.  _Oh_. "...Lancelot?"

In the distance: the echoes of a bell, a very familiar distress call. His eyes widen and he rolls out of bed, glancing at the window. It's just shortly after dawn, the light bright and crisp, stinging his eyes.

"We must get out there and find out what's going on!"

"Gaius has already gone ahead to find out what's going on," Lancelot explains. Merlin quickly dresses, having no time to get self-conscious, and goes down to the main room. Gwaine is sitting on a chair pulling on his boots, yawning loudly.

"Morning, Merlin. That's the sound of a warning bell, right?"

"Yes. I can't tell why though. I need to find Arthur…He'd know what's happened."

"Going out there during the day is risky," Lancelot says; the warlock rolls his eyes.

"I know, I know. I've done it before, don't worry." He finds a piece of plain bread on the table, he grabs in on the way through the door. Carefully he peers down the corridor, but there must be some kind of commotion because no guards are in sight. Quietly he whispers the concealment spell, and slips down the hallway toward Arthur's chambers.

Arthur himself barges into the physician's rooms three minutes later, hair not yet combed; his eyes are darkened and stressed: "An army is marching toward Camelot. And my father has fallen strangely ill. Where are Gaius and Merlin?"

"Merlin went to find you, sire," Lancelot answers. "The physician probably went to see what's going on."

"Damn it."

"An army?" Gwaine asks, weighing his sword in one hand.

The prince nods. "A patrol just came back: three of the men were dead or dying when they reached the gates." He's got no time: he has to find Merlin, and the Cup. He knows who have stolen it, he needs to take it back now and quickly before it was used to ill deeds. Merlin had said it could be used to balance Life and Death and something about immortality. What better weapon was there for an army? If the enemy uses it… "When Gaius comes back tell him to hurry to my father's chambers."

"What can we do to help?" Lancelot asks.

"Stay where I can find you." He needs every fighter he can get.

* * *

**LXXX** **IV.**

They clang into each other rather painfully, Merlin rubbing his nose after the impact. "Ouch. That hurt. Watch where you're going!"

"As if the invisible man is to speak," Arthur retorts dryly.

"What's going on? Why are the warning bells ringing?"

Immediately, the prince's face grows serious, humour falling away. "An army is on its way. I need to speak with my father. His manservant came reporting to me he's become suddenly ill."

"I'll come with you."

"Are you  _mad_?"

"No, not quite."

* * *

**LXX** **XV.**

The king lies blanketed in his chambers, shut off from the rest of the world. He refuses to acknowledge it. There's fury and anger, desperation and old dying hopes, crumbling in his lap and finally he simply closes his eyes not being able to take it anymore.

Arthur can't hide it anymore: he's accused Morgana of being a traitor, heart aching, and the king is furious, afraid. That and the incoming forces of Cenred: it's too much. Like someone just has carved out a piece of his heart and thrown it away.

" _You have no proof_! Out! Out!" the king yells, and Arthur backs out of the room, while speaking.

"Father – we are going to be attacked. An army is marching toward us as we speak. Cenred has most likely allied with Morgause and Morgana. I am gathering the men whether you wish it or not to counter the attack. I will do anything I can to protect the city and its people. I swear, father."

"OUT!"  _Morgana would never. Would never. Would never._

He doesn't know what to do. He crawls into a pit of despair, old memories haunting him, decision he's unsure if he regrets – why is he remembering now? Why is it hurting so much now? He holds his head hiding his face rocking back and forth as he cries, confused, delirious:

_The screams. Hundreds of dying burning people screaming: Mother, don't die, Father, please don't die! You thief! You took my son!_ _Don't die! Murderer! Screaming at the king in their fury and grief and heartbreak and hatred, hating his ignorance, hating his hate, as he cuts them down with his sword and his crown and the fire, the fire, the burning painful fire! eating him from inside out, the witch laughing, You're a fool Uther Pendragon…You've never been my father! And Ygriane, flickering by, Uther what have you done?_

(When he emerges from his chambers hours later, it's too late, the streets charred.)

* * *

 **LXXXV** **I**.

"He didn't listen, did he?" Merlin asks quietly. He suspects what this sudden illness is. The mandrake root. But even if he removes the root, something in Merlin's heart tells him, quietly, that it's too late, after being used once, the effects will never go away. The king will wither, aged and terrified and terribly alone.

Arthur shakes his head. The man never would, he thinks, but doesn't say it out loud. Instead he turns fully to the warlock, takes a deep breath and asks: "Will you help me?"

"Of course I will," Merlin smiles.

"We don't have enough men. We need a weapon strong enough to counter three sorcerers."

"I could summon Kilgarrah if you want."

Before they leave the corridor where the king's chambers are situated, Merlin murmurs the invisibility spell and slips inside, as carefully as possible to not stir the king, removing the sticky dripping black plant attached to the underside of the bed. The king doesn't even lift his head, eyes misty.

* * *

 **LXXXV** **II**.

The whole city is tense, and people are babbling, murmuring, 'What's going on?' and 'An army!' and 'Will we make it?'. Those who cannot fight are escorted from the lower towns to the citadel. Gaius and several servants, including Gwen, prepare a large chamber to act as infirmary. Arthur wanders across more corridors than he's known existed, while overlooking the situation and trying to learn more about the enemy from the patrol, an invisible Merlin on his heels. They make sure that all who can fight are armed – not just knights, but all men who can wield a sword – and overlook the supplies. If the city is held by siege, they won't last long; they have water but not enough food: Arthur knows it, and fears what would become of the people if they have to hold the city for so long, or if it's taken.

Merlin takes a horse and rides out by midday, and Gwaine goes with him. When hearing about the dragon, he's gleeful, and persists on coming with him. "I'd like to be able to summon dragons too," he says wistfully.

They enter a wide clearing, the place where a dozen knights, Arthur and his manservant faced said dragon over a year ago. The grass bears no lingering mark of the occurrence, there are no remaining scorch marks from the dragon's breath. Merlin looks at the sky, crying out in the oldest language he knows, the words rolls off his tongue naturally: he knows the language of magic perhaps better than the one he was taught as a child, it's a bit frightening to know that when he never intended to.

" **Dracan, eom, ala sece findan metan, teosu hus anbid! Aerne!** "

Gwaine is unusually silent. He cannot recognize Merlin's voice when it grows guttural, unfamiliar words necessary to command a dragon deep in the warlock's throat.

* * *

 **LXXXV** **III**.

The pull stirs him from sleep. He's been waiting for this. Kilgarrah spreads his wings and leaps into the sky.

* * *

 **LXXXIX**.

The blonde takes the silvery Cup with eyes gleaming in fascination at the power in her hands. Her sister stands beside her, and an army is before her. They will be invincible, she thinks, indestructible.

King Cenred is speaking to his men, words of hatred toward Camelot, words of vengeance, words of victory. This battle would be won: this time they would have a far more powerful weapon than ever.

"Men! Today I shall grant you a great gift. I shall grant the gift of total immortality."

* * *

 **X** **C**.

The grass bends to the wind, the air whooshing before the creature comes into sight, the wingspan enormous. The horses are spooked, snorting nervously, Merlin lays a hand on the neck of his murmuring soothingly.

"That's a sight," Gwaine muses aloud, "that you can't forget."

"Young warlock," Kilgarrah greets them; "And this must be Gwaine of Strenght."

"You know about me?" the man asks unabashedly, eyebrows climbing up his forehead.

"I know many things," is the mysterious answer only triggering more questions with the man, but the warlock interrupts him before he can begin.

"So you know what's about to happen then? The army marching toward Camelot?" Merlin says.

The dragon looks down at him with yellow, unreadable eyes, silent for a moment. "The wheel of destiny has begun to roll," he says at length and Merlin can't even sigh, the events upcoming are too serious, he can't act out his annoyance with the dragon's riddles right now. However, the message beneath those words are for once clear: this battle was going to be the first great step of Arthur's, and Albion's, destiny.

So perhaps this battle has already been foreseen to happen and thus, for Arthur to win: he's not the king yet. At the thought, Merlin relaxes some.

"I need your help," he says to Kilgarrah. " _We_  need your help. Will you fight for us?"

The dragon dips his head, but it does little to change the fact he's still towering above the two men like a giant and they like ants in his shadow. "I will."


	9. XCI - C

**XCI.**

"They will reach us by mid-day in tomorrow. Another patrol just returned," Sir Leon says, distressed. He is standing before the prince in the hall, several others waiting around them. Knights, soldiers, ordinary guards, council members, a few servants who aren't busy elsewhere. The prince has held a short, straight-forward speech – he's never been one for riddles and drawn-out monologues – about the situation. He's quickly assessed the situation.

Merlin stands somewhere behind him: Arthur can sense him, but still not see him.

"Are we sure of their numbers?"

"The scouts report up to seven thousand, milord. They're more than twice our numbers."

"All armed able-bodied men are to be gathered in the courtyard at dawn."

"Sire." The man bows his neck and gathers some older knights, spreading orders, murmurs ripple through the gathered people. Gwaine is present, as is Lancelot: their faces are now clean, and they wear swords and chainmail. No one protests at their presence, as sir Leon is probably the only knight to really remember Lancelot and the man has already, indirectly, saved his life. The prince has gathered ordinary people for this fight, people who would never be knighted, but they are still too few.

The prince is already wearing chainmail and armour, though it's not been properly cleaned and polished yet. Merlin looks at the prince and thinks, that maybe, he knows what's going through the man's mind. When looking at him now, his profile is that of a great king in the making; the warlock's chest grows warm with pride, and Merlin can see the future that lies ahead, full with hope. They will go through this. They will survive this.

"Merlin," Arthur murmurs to his side, to thin air, no one hears him; "are you still here?"

" _Yes,"_  a voice says in his mind. " _What'd you think? That I'd run away?"_

Involuntarily he flinches at the contact of another mind in his own. He wasn't even aware Merlin was able to do that, enter other people's minds and speak in their heads. (When thinking about it, it feels rather insane and disturbing and Arthur tried not to linger on it.) But with Merlin you should expect the unexpected. He forces himself to relax, and says quietly, "Remove that invisibility spell."

" _What? You mean right now right here, in front of all these people?"_

"Yes, Merlin. You dim-wit."

" _Really? I mean…Magic is prohibited. I'd rather not fancy all those knights trying to stab me (the swords looks nasty). You sure, Arthur?"_

"My father isn't here," Arthur says and begrudgingly admits, not looking very pleased at such a weakness, at such a want for reassurance; "I need you beside me, and I don't like it when you're sneaking around where I can't see you. Now get rid of it. We'll deal with my father when all this is over."

He can practically  _see_  the tone of you're-crazy-you-know in Merlin's voice.  _"Fine."_

Everyone but himself, Gwaine, Lancelot and sir Leon reacts by stepping backwards, yelling in surprise. Merlin smiles sheepishly when he comes into view, the shadows disappearing just like that, feeling very awkward.

"There's nothing to fear. Merlin is here on my orders. You do  _not_  have to fear him," Arthur says, holding up a hand to order silence. It feels rather ridiculous, having to tell people not to be scared of that clumsy, idiotic, selfless man; but all the gathered in the hall stares and whispers in fright, some men have drawn their swords. They recognize him, of course: nobody speaks of it, but Merlin's one of those personalities that's hard to forget, and the almost-execution springs to people's mind with startling clarity.

"I apologize for his startling appearance. It was necessary though."

"S-sire! He's a sorcerer!" a young knight stammers.

"Merlin has magic, yes, but he isn't using his powers for evil. Evil lies within the hands of the user, not in the magic itself. We fear that this army marching towards us is led by three other sorcerers and to counter magic we may have to use magic. That is where Merlin comes into the picture. He's not only a warlock but also a dragonlord. He's summoned a dragon to aid us in this battle."

"Dragon?" whispers the crowd, echoing doubts, fears; "Dragonlord?"

There's so much to explain, so much he wants to say, so much needed to be cleared because of the heavy fear and doubt and suspicion which has scarred this city, but all Arthur says is: "Yes."

"What if he's an impostor, what of he's working for Cenred?" someone asks heatedly. "How do we know he's not enchanting us?" A murmur rises in the hall, in agreement or disagreement.

Merlin holds up his hands in defense, and looks dismayed at being accused. "I'd  **never**  betray Arthur like that. Nor would I ever use magic on innocents."

"You have my word that Merlin is no threat to any of you," Arthur says in a grave tone which poses no room for protests. "The only ones who should fear are our enemies. Anyone who protests to Merlin's presence are to speak up now."

And it's not really surprising when the silence falling onto them complete, still, misty, everyone still staring doubtfully at the warlock. For Arthur cannot expect to be able make revolution in an hour or a day, maybe not a lifetime (though Merlin knows that the Once and Future King one day will change the world).

* * *

**XCII.**

"Morgana is missing."

The words are dreaded but anticipated and fall heavy onto the floor.

"So she has really…" Arthur whispers to himself. Yes, he's known; there's something amiss and Morgana has changed so startlingly but a tiny part of him hasn't grasped it, the magnitude of this change (By choice? Or forced? He's not sure), hasn't wanted to – not that any part of him  _wants_  to believe and know that's its true, that Morgana has turned against Camelot and the king and thus him, the prince – that he has lost her and might never be able to gain her back.

"I'm sorry," Merlin whispers back, having heard him, and Arthur avoids looking at his eyes because those blue are too expressive right now. Merlin hasn't ever associated showing emotion with shame and it's easy to read what he's feeling most of the time, always written on a sleeve; Arthur has grown up with the knowledge that showing emotion is a weakness foremost and is to be hidden, quailed, earthed 'til the time is right. Sometimes the right time never comes.

"She must have taken the Cup and left many hours ago," the warlock continues in an equally quiet tone as before, hesitating raising a hand to pat Arthur's back, before lowering it again without actually making the move, because the prince wears that tired but stern look on his face that Merlin has learned means he is determined to solve things on his own and the slightest touch can get him off-guard.

(Not that Merlin will let him solve this all on his own; he'll be right beside him always, no matter the protests.)

Arthur will not spill tears yet; not until he is sure that there's  _nothing_  he can do.

* * *

**XCIII.**

The king feels immobilized, frozen. He's only partly aware of what was going on and slept poorly, haunted by images and memories and screams and woke up alone, confused. Sometimes Gaius comes with another sleeping draught, but they have no effect. Sometimes a servant creeps inside, to serve a meal or tidy up a bit, but they flee as soon as they can, avoiding his stare.

He's insane, they whisper where he cannot hear, the king is losing his mind.

Arthur hasn't showed his face since Uther yelled at him to get out, which is both frustrating and a relief. For even as Arthur is his son and closest confident, one of those he can trust the most, the king has felt that trust slip away for months and now his son is lying right into his face and it's good to be rid of those lies, those words that cannot,  _not_   _ever_ , be true. Because it's all wrong, they're all wrong, traitors speaking of such things: the people around him, he now understands, they're all liars and cannot be trusted. He has lost his closest confident with Arthur and gained  _nothing_. It's clear that he cannot listen to anyone, none of the councilors, not even Gaius; they're all  _wrong_.

* * *

**XCIV.**

The sky darkens but the city is flaring with life, candles and torches and pacing feet and mothers hushing their children as they pack all necessary belongings and heads toward the castle for cover. It has been a long day, with many hours of preparing for a siege, seeing to defenses and little rest, yet Merlin feels like he can keep moving for many hours more, his veins filled with energy. If he sleeps tonight, it won't be for long, it's simply not possible.

Arthur joins him at the parapet. There are no stars overhead, the sky it too dim and clouds overhanging heavy and thick.

"I've put protective wards around the castle and city walls," Merlin says, "but once they reach us they can be broken with magic. I can't guarantee being able to concentrate on them during the battle."

"How strong are they?"

"Well, as long as they're up no physical object can cross the barriers, but it's just a matter of speaking a breaking spell, which I'm sure Morgause and Mordred will have no trouble with. That is, if they realize what kind of magic I've done."

"But it'll save us time, at least," the prince says, exhaling and leaning against the white stone. He looks exhausted.

* * *

**XCVI.**

"Morning," Gwaine says, the greeting not as cheerful as it used to be, when Merlin takes seat by the table for breakfast. Gaius is bustling about gathering the last things he would need to tend to the wounded that would come of this battle; an infirmary has been set up in the great hall, where many people can be housed. Every citizen who aren't to fight had been or are being escorted to the castle as they speak, eyes worried, voices quiet.

Merlin hasn't been able to sleep. He's been awake all night reading through his magic book for useful spells to memorize, thinking of various outcomes and strategies and the hopelessness of the situation. Once or twice he's had an odd mindful conversation with Kilgarrah who doesn't seem to sleep at all about how to survive this and tactics and how the make immortal men mortal again and (the dragon's favourite subject) destiny.

He is pretty certain that Kilgarrah has foreseen this, and is partly comforted by that fact, because it could mean that Arthur is meant to win the battle. It could be just another step toward the throne. But simultaneously the chances look very slim.

"Morning," he says, filling a bowl with porridge.

"The princess isn't here yet, but I expect him to pop in soon. Lancelot went to help a very sweet girl at the infirmary. What was her name again…Guinevere? Very nice girl."

"If you try anything with her, Arthur will  _not_  be happy," Merlin warns the man. "Nor if you call him princess in his face."

"Oh, I'll keep that in mind," Gwaine says winking, and Merlin just shakes his head at the man's spirit, wondering if his personality is just this insane or if he's acting it to hide what he really feels.

"Everything that needs to be done has been done," the warlock says, ignoring the subject the man had brought up. "Now we just have to wait."

* * *

**XCVII.**

The sunrise is dull and quick behind a sheet of clouds. Every one of Percival's senses are on alert and he stirs at the slightest sound, movement in the corner of his eye: he hasn't been able to sleep. It is shameful to admit, but he's afraid, and as he fumbles to get his armour on his fingers trembles and he wonders what on earth is happening, why he would ever do this, something so hopeless, so mad? It was insane. What does Camelot have? A few peasants who had had no training, no time to get familiar with the sword, and even fewer soldiers and knights. And the army on the march toward them is strong and trained and outnumbers them three-to-one (if not more).

Maybe he shouldn't have aspired for knighthood and instead spent his life at his father's manor, be educated to a scholar. Studied. Lived a peaceful, safe life. He'd overestimated himself, had believed knighthood meant luxury and glory and honour and not cowering in fear.

No, he's  _not_  cowering, Percival berates himself; what kind of knight is he if he backs away and hides? He wouldn't be able to show his face ever again. He wouldn't be worthy recognition, even a fine funeral, if he lets down his people and his king in such a manner.

There's hope, a tiny bit of hope (even if the army probably is immortal and magical and everything supernatural combined). They have a dragon, one of those fearsome fire-breathing beasts (The very same which had attacked the city once. It's strange how the tides could turn.), and dragonlord, a  _sorcerer,_ controlling the beast; the stuff of nightmares. (Warlock, wasn't that the term the prince had used?) How bizarre isn't that? Almost insane and ironically hilarious. Camelot, the great kingdom opposing magic, being aided by the same force it wanted to choke. The gods of fate must be laughing.

Clenching his jaw in determination, Percival exits his chambers sword a familiar weight on his hip and heads for the courtyard, every nerve on edge, clinging to the thought that maybe they have a chance of surviving, after all.

* * *

**XCVIII.**

" _It is time he is_ _given the sword,"_  Kilgarrah's voice echoes in his mind, startling, sudden with its clarity.

It's early morning, the sky pale and grey and empty, a void almost touchable. Men of all ages with different state of protection on them, carrying swords, spears or maces, are gathering in the courtyard. Some have been to battle before and knows how to harden their faces and hide their fear but others have never held a sword before in their life and their core trembles, knuckles whitening and their eyes flicker wishing to find something: something to hold onto, something to hope for, but it's difficult to find. The high-ranking knights are pacing before them, counting and already anticipating the casualties..

There is no time to fetch the sword. The lake is too far away and there's an army on the threshold, Merlin cannot leave the city – by foot, a dragon's back or otherwise – because he can't leave when danger is so close and especially not leave Arthur alone; Arthur can't leave the city, the fool will get into danger, it seems like his fate.

How can they reach it in time? How can  _he_  reach it in time?

And the dragon, sensing his desperation, replies calmly as always;  _"The once and future king is the only one who can draw it out of the water."_

An idea forms in his head. It's got to work, he just have to come up with an appropriate spell (it's strange, how often he's done that lately, found half-finished spells and come up with better ways to form and use them: he can do that now, practically fluent in the Language of the Old Religion).

"Thanks!" he calls to the dragon, which stands waiting by the gates; he sprints toward the courtyard without waiting for a reply.

* * *

**XCIX.**

Arthur looks between the warlock and the bucket in his hands not quite believing him.

"You want me to what?"

It's a strange, stupid request. He'd just finished a motivating speech to the warriors when Merlin came running, interrupting not very gracefully. The armed men murmur amongst themselves; Have they come? Is the army here already?

Arthur is not impressed. With Merlin.

"Just put your hand in the water!" Merlin says vehemently, for the fourth time, and Arthur sighs, finally giving in, and pushes his hand into the bucket expecting to feel the wooden bottom after eight inches, but feels  _nothing_. The water is blurry and suddenly, his hand comes in contact with something solid that's definitely not wood.

His hand wraps around the hilt and he tugs upwards, the thing appears stuck like in mud but then moves free, easily over the brim along with his hand. It's a hilt, draped in heavy lake-water and gold. A sword's blade follows the hilt, and Arthur only stares at it and then at Merlin who looks delighted and relieved, the blade reflecting the weak sunlight, there's not a single sign of rust, not a single scratch on the weapon surface despite it having lain underwater for months, years.

The onlookers oh! and ah!s. This isn't like the magic Camelot has encountered in the past. This is strange and beautiful somehow and awe-inspiring, the kind which people would later sing of and write dedicated prose, without fearing for their lives.

"What is this sword? How did you-?" he asks, testing the balance. It's perfect. The hilt fits smoothly in his hand. In the past he has used many swords and found many good, but none can compete with this blade, and he hasn't even used it yet! (Yes, what is this sword? How did Merlin know about such a weapon?) "Pick me up," the prince reads the inscriptions on one side of the blade aloud and turns it around; for some reason he finds he can read the runes though they are fully unfamiliar; "Cast me away."

He has a sense the words are a warning, but cannot put his finger on from what danger.

"It's been made for you," Merlin informs him.

"Right now, out of the water?" Arthur asks suspiciously (if this is a sword made from water, he wouldn't know what to think of the world anymore), frowning at the warlock and Merlin hides a smile. "From water? Are you stupid?"

"I recognize that sword!" Gwen, who has been standing aside watching in awe along with the knights, exclaims, walking forward. Arthur lets her inspect the blade. "Yes. Yes, I am _positive_  my father made this. Merlin…?" She raises her eyes to the young man expectantly.

"Yes, your father forged this sword. King Uther killed the Black Knight with it."

"That was years ago," sir Leon murmurs, remembering the events; he had been present at the feast when the mysterious dark rider with an old, unfamiliar crest on his shield crashed through the window, eventually causing the death of two aspiring knights. In the end the prince had challenged the stranger, but the king took his place and won the battle, almost miraculously.

"Wait, my father has used this sword? How come I've never seen it before then?" Arthur wonders.

Merlin scratches the back of his neck, smiling lopsidedly. "Well, it was made for the Once and Future King, no one else. When Kilgarrah found out about your father using it, he was so mad: the king was never meant to wield it. It just sort of happened by mistake… So I took the sword, sneaked out of Camelot and threw it into a lake for safekeeping."

"In a lake…For safekeeping? And what has that bloody dragon got to do with it?!"

"This sword is forged in the dragon's breath. It can slay both the living and the dead. That was how your father managed to defeat the Black Knight, which wasn't living for real, only conjured back to life by Nimueh."

One of the knights whistles; it's easy to guess who it was. "Can I hold it?" Gwaine asks hopefully, inching closer. That sword sounds in his mind simply awesome and it's so  _unfair_  Merlin has only fixed such a weapon for  _Arthur_  - talk about favoring. He'd like to be able to kill both living and undead things too, especially as there's a (most possibly) immortal army on the move toward them.

"Not in your dreams," the prince retorts."You don't happen to be able to have a sheath for it with you, Merlin?"

"Well, actually, there never was one…I'll fix one later, okay?"

"Typically you, fixing magical swords without sheaths and throwing them into lakes. You do realize a lake isn't the ideal hiding place of a weapon of such strong magical magnitude, right?"

"It was a good idea at the time!"

"I'm  _sure_  it was."

"Sire!" a voice calls from above, and a guard rushes down a stair from the wall, toward the mass of people gathered in the square. The safe atmosphere which has formed around the small group of close knights and friends at the center diminishes; Merlin exchanges a serious look with Arthur who nods, fastening the newly acquired sword to his belt; Lancelot grabs the reins of his horse and Gwaine's pleads to hold the great sword at least once fades.

"They're coming from the tree-line!" the guard shouts. "They're coming!"

Arthur says, "Let's put this magical sword to the test."

* * *

**C.**

The first thing they see is the great shadow of a dragon before it sweeps down upon them, wings spread wide and its tail cleaving the air.

"It's quite a sight, isn't it," Gwaine mumbles to a nearby soldier, one of those who still linger in the courtyard and haven't moved into position yet, who nods mutely, eyes fixed on the scaly creature. "I wish I was able to do that," he adds, gesturing at the warlock.

Merlin looks very calm, almost too extremely calm and Gwaine suspects the young man is jumpy and edgy inside as the rest of them, every fiber of his being vibrating with anticipation. As the dragon lands, he doesn't back away, and Arthur standing beside him fights not to draw his sword instinctively.

The dragon dips its head (and it is indeed giant, it's yellow glowing eyes like huge plates) and a human-like voice comes from its mouth. "You called, young warlock?"

"It speaks!" one of the men exclaims not able to help himself, and the dragon hums, like humored.

"Of course. I am not a mute simple lizard. Had you expected me to be so?"

The soldier gapes, mouth opening and closing like a fish, unable to come up with a response. "I… no, of course not…" he croaks, struggling inside to come up with a proper title at the creature because calling a dragon which can obliterate you in one breath the wrong thing doesn't seem a good idea.

"Now isn't the time for discussions on intelligence," Merlin cuts in. "It's time to go."

The dragon obediently lowers itself onto its belly so the warlock can climb onto its back; when it takes the leap into the sky, its claws dig scars in the stony ground, a reminder of the power at Camelot's disposal. Then it flies over the magically enforced wall to face the army beyond it.

_So it begins_ , Arthur thinks, watching them disappear:  _it is reality now._


	10. CI - CX

**CI.**

The world is a sea of scarlet.

Men and women are everywhere, like ants or rats among piles of rubble and broken homes, smashed pieces of souls crashing against the shore, sword in hand, screaming. Some wield magic with their fist; others, a shield.

Some, panicked and helpless and empty-handed, try to flee but they are trapped in flame and metal and stone – chaos is like a carpet, but in it all there's an order, where a red-cloaked formation of knights surround the citadel, a last stand, their prince leading them and a dragon circling overhead as the dark shapes presses in closes, their damned souls unwilling perhaps, yet unable to stop.

The wards of the walls have broken long ago by the sheer force of magic in advance, and people are struggling to get out of the castle, but there's nowhere to run. Merlin has been moving back and forth between sky and ground to protect the men, he doesn't know how long time has passed or if he's injured himself because he cannot bring himself to care or think or anything right now. All he must do is fight, spell after spell rolling off his tongue.

" _Emrys!"_  – the call is so haunting, it's not his name, he doesn't want to answer to such a powerful, feared, respected name which both is and isn't his own – " _Emrys, I am waiting for you."_

Kilgarrah sweeps down, Merlin leaps upon his back easily: like he's born to fly. He hears Arthur cry out in question  _What are you doing?_  but hasn't the time to properly answer.

* * *

**CII.**

Arthur turns onto his next adversary, teeth clenched. The battle has been long and tiring despite the aid of the Great Dragon and Merlin's magic (trembling in his hand, beneath their feet). The flames lick around the city walls, through the gates. The enemy army seems an immobile force by the magic, not flinching, not falling before it. Their faces – they are so empty and cold and fearless, so  _void_  of any expression; and Arthur thinks they're probably enchanted. Controlled.

The empty-eyed men cannot die, because of the Cup. But with the sword, Arthur can kill them, but it's one blade versus a thousand others – at length, it helps very little.

Arthur has never killed a human before who  _doesn't_   _feel anything_.

It's not natural.

The magic.

It's a force which he both respects and fears. He doesn't fear Merlin – he's never  _truly_  feared Merlin, how could he, when Merlin is such a kind-hearted selfless man? –- but he fears _this_. The unknown. How can he cut down an emotionless opponent who is like a doll, a puppet? Men who refuses to die even as they lose blood, limbs, breath? Arthur is a warrior, a knight, and knights fight fair, according to the Code, they do not attack the unarmed, they don't attack when people's backs are turned.

This, this isn't fair.

Men are decorating the streets like carpets of armour and flesh. Upon them, the shadows.

None of them retreats, despite the heavy stank of death.

* * *

**CIII.**

Gwaine has seen many things in his life. He's travelled from kingdom to kingdom, tavern to tavern, tasted the beverages and seen the occasional lord or king. He's gained friends and foes alike, gone through hardships, but his soul is a rarely light one, and with a spoonful of sarcasm and a goblet of ale, everything is possible. He isn't the kind of man who stays where there's trouble (other than for a good fight) and tries his best to live life to the fullest. Contrary of what most people believe, he's not a simple drunkard hell bent on annoying every person he meets: it's just how he mostly appears, it's rare to find a moment of clear seriousness on his face.

He has fought before, though never a full-scaled bloody battle such as this. The chances of surviving seems dim: those damned men are immortal and he's just got a sword which isn't magical, all in all, it's very unfair, and it's strange for him to be in a situation like this. Who'd believe – him, aiding Camelot's princeling like this? It's astonishing, really.

He's lost track of time, and the men he's run through. Men who stubbornly keep surrounding him. A wave of new ones come, and another one: their lines are endless. In the end, he has to run, fending them off with the help of some knight. Together, he and the knight make their way across the street, hurrying to cover.

Bloody immortals.

He needs something (preferably strong) to soothe his throat.

"The princess's gotta have a plan B if this goes on," Gwaine mutters. The knight looks at him oddly, then shakes his head without commenting. Now is not the time for jokes and pointless squabbles.

"We should make our way back to the main force at the citadel," the knight says, glancing around the corner of a building: they're still being followed.

* * *

**C** **IV.**

Merlin spots him through the dim light. There's smoke everywhere, fires raging beneath them, Kilgarrah hums: the tremble rushes through Merlin's hands. When close enough the ground, he jumps off, the dragon turning back upon the enemies again.

He lands the centre of the chaos, in the middle of the courtyard, and Mordred is calmly waiting. A handful of bodies are spread around him, red cloaks over their sprawled forms. His face betrays nothing but scorn.

He's still a child.

He looks like a child, he's not an adult man and at first glance one would have thought him a shy, adorable boy, innocent, a poor child that one would want to bring home to safety but then he stares with blue blue cold eyes, there's vengeance written in them,  _revenge_ : he's here for his dead father, his slaughtered and exiled people and the blood written on the walls and, most of all, himself. He's a child, yet, he is definitely not.

But though that, all of his hate and despite how he's changed from that boy they once saved into a total cold distant stranger, Merlin hesitates.

How can he not?

How can he charge right on without regret, without second thoughts, without faltering?

The boy is still just a  _child_.

(He's killed and killed; Merlin sometimes fears himself but if he kills a child he might never survive it, might never be able to move on.)

This child, this boy – Merlin helped saving his life.

(…He doesn't want to become a murderer. Is that what he's already become? A slaughterer of magical creatures and supernatural beings and bandits and sorcerers and people all in the name of Arthur's protection, in the name of Destiny?)

" _Emrys,"_  Mordred speaks in his mind, making him shiver.  _"I have waited."_

Merlin remembers first meeting him, the injured boy cowering in the courtyard calling for help, pleading, feverish, weak: the dragon's warning; You must kill the boy, and Mordred's farewell; We'll meet again Emrys. It was a promise now being fulfilled, but back then, naïve-minded Merlin never thought that it would be like this.

(This is the boy which shall be Arthur's killer. It's his  _destiny_.)

Merlin remembers helping Camelot's knights into the druid camp, the fight, when he'd spotted the child there slaughtering men without distress. The distress hadn't come from killing, but from being hunted and his kind being killed and all of the dangers he'd lived with all his life, and that frustration and anger killed those men without words.

Merlin had  _wanted_   _to help_  him from the first time they met. He still wanted to reach out and turn Mordred back into a child and make everything  _all right,_ turn the past into the present and make all bad memories go away. If he could, if he could, he'd start over and make things better, make things less painful.

" _So you wish to destroy me?"_

The child can read his mind, his face, his eyes, and his hands twitch involuntarily as he steps closer, unable to struggle against his own limbs and muscles – "No," Merlin answers, "no, I want to help."

Mordred's face contracts like in pain _. "That's a lie. It's all a lie! It is too late."_

"No!" the warlock exclaims hotly raising his hands, "It's not too late yet! You don't have to turn to killing innocent people to achieve whatever you think you will – because you won't. Killing Uther and Arthur and Camelot won't solve anything! Arthur  _will_  return magic to the kingdom one day, but it doesn't have to be at the cost of so many lives – you and your people will be free, you won't be killed for your existence!"

"I believed in the prophecies," the child hisses, and he's using his voice for real this time, hands angry fists. "My people always had faith in Emrys.  **Then you**   **betrayed us**."

He's betraying them all at some point, Arthur, Camelot, his friends, the druids, all magical beings in this land, this world, he's betrayed them all and spilled so many lies – he knows this, can only hope he'll be able to set things right but how can he possible make Mordred understand?

Nobody can understand.

"I don't wish to betray any of you. But if you try harming Arthur or the king, I'll have no choice. I'm giving you this chance to walk away."

"It's not that simple, Emrys. I shall  _never_  walk away."

 _You'_ _re wrong, Emrys._

Mordred doesn't incant any spells aloud but Merlin's magic instinctively rises to protect him as hot flames suddenly erupt around him, creating a shield which the fire bounces off. This takes little energy from him, and likewise it doesn't tire Mordred. The warlock has felt it all along, that this child has a strong magic, a core much like his own but he knows, as Kilgarrah has said, that Mordred isn't as strong as him (and perhaps not even a true warlock). Nobody is – if there is anyone out there with greater raw force flowing in their veins, then the prophecies are all wrong and Merlin isn't Emrys and Merlin doesn't need to worry about destiny anymore.

"Mordred! Leave now and I'll spare your life!"

It turns blurry after that: shocking pulses of magic ripples through the air, crumbling walls and mixing air with dust, they stand there facing each other hands lifted, shields of various colours rising to protect and falling when yet another surge of magical energy breaks through. Again and again, over and over; soon enough, Merlin no longer use words, because forming them would take too much time and his elemental magic is strong enough anyway, his control of it greater than most sorcerers could ever dream of.

"I'm warning you! LEAVE!"

Mordred doesn't reply.

Another wave, dust, everything is crystal clear yet Merlin cannot see, his heart clenching painfully: he attempts to look stoic and brave but god, god it hurts in his heart, this child ( _he could've helped him_!) he's about to murder stands before him calm in the storm, hands raised, ancient words spilling from his lips.

He can't kill him.

Merlin has never wanted to be a traitor and murderer of anyone. Of Camelot or his own kind or strangers.

Yet he gives another push, energy burning hot in his palm, scorching the ground and then – screaming of pain, Mordred's cloak whirls red, torn at the edges.

"You'll regret this!" Mordred's voice almost cracks his eardrums; unlike the boy's body which is collapsing, the voice is firm and only growing stronger. "One day, Emrys!" And in a flash of wind, he's gone, his promise echoing over the city-walls.  **"One day, Emrys!"**

Merlin hasn't got much time to stop and exhale, inhale, close his eyes, breathe.

* * *

 **C** **V**.

They're fleeing now: fleeing the city. While the fighters and the prince stays in a protective half-circle around the inner wall, trying to keep the enemy at bay, while the citizens run. Merlin has earlier blasted a giant hole in the eastern wall; it's the only way out with the enemy soldiers blocking the main gates. The people panics, cries, wails in fear, despair at having to leave their homes maybe forever unsure if Camelot will still stand by the end of this day or be in ruins.

It's a last resort. Lancelot knows that the prince treasures the city and would never give it up unless there's no other choice. They're surrounded by too great a force now and unless the enchantment is broken, they have no choice. The people are more important than the stone walls. They have to get out.

Somewhere among the ashen-faced masses, Lancelot spots an aged familiar one, the king he realizes – stumbling alongside the physician, tired, confused, wide-eyed. The man sees them only for a moment, before he's consumed by battle once again.

Up ahead, Arthur raises his sword, shouting, but what the words are, Lancelot is too far away to hear.

_A last stand._

He never thought this was how he would return to Camelot.

(He never thought he'd return to Camelot at all.)

* * *

**CV** **I.**

The ceiling appears to be trembling like by impacts, by what's she's unsure. A series of faint explosions are heard through the walls, strong but far-off. Any closer, and Gwen fears they could bring down the castle upon itself.

Wherever she looks around the hall, there was wounded waiting for assistance. There's a man wailing, his leg so badly injured it must be removed and dozens of others in as much terrible pain, and Gwen wants to shut her eyes and ears. She fears coming to face with someone she recognizes. A familiar face. A knight she knows the name of, a citizen she'd encountered just two days earlier on the market, or Arthur. There's always the risk she can lose people dear to her, and that is almost the worst, she thinks, standing by and being able to do so little, while the battle rages outside. The latest news tells that the walls are crumbling, that the lower town is unrecognizable, fifteen more dead men and the enemy soldiers are still unkillable.

Gwen is shaken from her thoughts when Gaius calls for her aid with a wounded, and moved across the floor smoothly without a word. She tries to school her expression, but feels tears prickle in her eyes at the sharp smell of blood invading her nostrils, and quietly begs to god that please,  _please, let this be over soon._

* * *

**C** **VII.**

"So he failed then," the witch murmurs, Merlin tenses like a bowstring at hearing her. "How disappointing."

From the dusts: two figures neared him. One holds the Cup securely in her hands. No one can touch it if she, immortal and magic, holds it: she's confident, eyes glowing.

"Morgause." Who was she, letting Mordred face him alone? (Mayhap, having them both to fight at once would force him to kill them, two souls mere victims of decade old events leading up to this – Merlin is kind of relieved that he didn't have to fight them both at once.)

She isn't alone. Her sister is close behind. When concentrating, Merlin can feel their essences, their magic somewhere beneath their skin.

Merlin knows that the simplest incantation is difficult for Morgana; she is a Seer, not a true witch meant to fight with her magic. There's much power hidden there, but she cannot reach it for some reason, it is out of range and it must be driving her mad, knowing that – the lady's eyes glint strangely, for a moment Merlin thinks he's looking at the Morgana he once knew but then it's gone.

 _I could have saved her,_  he thinks despairingly _. I could have… Those foolish old decisions - if he could turn back time…! Then he'd make things better. Then it wouldn't have to lead to this._ If only… These anguished thoughts, what good are they when it is already too late? After all, it's so easy to think back on the past and find your mistakes, wishing to correct them.

Morgause is maybe not stronger, but she has more control. She has been trained since childhood, unlike Morgana who has had only months.

"To be honest, I never thought Emrys to be you," Morgause muses. "You have either hidden well or been overestimated greatly."

"If that is meant to discourage me, it doesn't work," Merlin says. "Why are you doing this?"

"We aren't here to chit-chat, Merlin," Morgana says in her sister's place. "We're here for revenge, nothing else. Magic shall return. But you will not be the one to do it. You'd never succeed, seeing how feeble your attempts have been so far!"

"And what would you do? Murder Uther, Arthur, everyone who serves them? What would be left? A handful of scared commoners, some servants bent at your will? Arthur will bring magic, and  _peace_. You would bring magic and war and terror."

Morgana snickers. "I am the rightful heir of Camelot once both of them are dead. I shall be queen, and bring justice on this land! My kin shall thrive!"

"What of the rest of the people?"

"What does it concern you? When I step onto the throne you'll be a dead man!"

He doesn't even have to mutter a spell to raise the shield around himself, a blue shimmer of light which their attack bounces off. The power meant to hit him change directions, making a chain of explosions. The ground and walls around them are deeply scarred, but Merlin refuses to flinch.

"I can't allow what you are doing. Break the enchantment! Make them mortal again, retreat the army, and I'll let you live."

"You truly think we will give up when we have gotten this far?"

It's a risky move. To get to the cup, he has to get near her. Their combined magic has raised a shield and he's unsure how strong it is. Kilgarrah had said, to break the spell of immortality, the Cup had to be emptied, and would be safest to do so with one's hands or a physical weapon, not magical forces. To get near her, however, he has to drop his shield, so he can reach out. He has to act quickly, before they can react. He has no sword: he's never carried a sword, never bothered.

He sends off a series of attacks in rapid succession, like thunder, then rushes closer. The shield trembles. Another blast: he pushes as much magic he can into one ray of light, and the barrier breaks while absorbing the power. The women sags, Morgana takes a step back in shock, Morgause freezes where she stands.

"No!" The witch screams, but it's too late as Merlin reaches the Cup of Life first and wrenches it to the ground with bare hands, letting the blood within it flow. The witch's eyes glow, hand outstretched and it feels like it grabs his neck, choking him: Merlin is thrown across the pavement.

The soldiers that have been closing in suddenly fall, unmoving. The enchantment has been broken. Merlin heaves himself up from the ground, letting his magic go. It clearly startles her: he's never openly used magic as he is doing now, Morgause has never before seen it, tasted it.

He's easy to overlook, his scrawny arms, a servant's hands. She's never bothered until now – and sorely underestimated him.

Morgana rushes forward, abandoning her sword, at seeing the Cup fall. The center of their plan, the leader to their success. Their army numbers reduces to the half within seconds, minutes, their wounds too much as they become mortal. Morgana can feel it too: a wave through her, as her once truly invincibly body becomes normal, a mortal's. It's a confusing feeling, she begins to tremble.

Morgause falls to her knees.

"Sister!"

The dark-haired woman shrieks at the warlock, who forces himself to watch without saying anything: "What have you done!"

If he opens his mouth to speak now, if he moves, he risks having the grief of all years passed come crushing down on him and cry bitterly at the sight of his enemies ( _once I trusted you)_  crumbling.

"I was careless," the witch gasps, "Morgana…the sword wound…"

And Merlin realizes she must have fought in the battle, been wounded, but so sure of her immortality that she would survive, that the wound would heal. But it's fatal, her clothing is turning red like being drenched, it's growing difficult to breathe. She mutters some healing spells, but that's complicated magic which Merlin himself isn't good at yet. Nothing appears to happen.

He tries to cool his expression, it's difficult. "You should leave." If they did, there was a chance they'd survive. If they survive…

"Never," Morgause snarls. She raises a hand, with her last strength speaking. " **Swealt, Merlin!** **Bregdan anwiele gefeluc!"** The sword from the nearest dead soldier rises up, cutting the air towards him and Merlin reacts just in time, his magic pouring out and stopping the weapon in mid-air, freezing it inches from his face. The woman's face contracts in pain.

(Why couldn't she attack him even with the simplest of spells? How come he was so strong, even when quiet? Was this really Emrys?  _How could he be_? Morgause has been so sure, so certain, she and her sister would find Emrys and he would be glad to join their cause…but now…now… _Everything is wrong_.)

"Go, sister. Take the Cup and go! Leave me," she orders the dark-haired woman. "…You Saw…I was certain I could change…" the Future, but her breath doesn't last: she coughs violently, blood landing on her palm.

Merlin wants to let them go: he doesn't want to kill either of them, like with Mordred, he  _cannot_  kill them: even though he maybe should. So he doesn't speak those words that can end a life. He doesn't attack. But he cannot let them have the Cup, it'd be giving them a weapon and say they can go ahead and shot. He holds out a hand and its flies into his grasp. It feels warm, overheated. "Go," he says. "Leave!"

" **You will pay for this, Emrys** ," Morgause whispers in the Language of the Old Religion, making the words a seal. " **You and Pendragon will fall.** "

Merlin shudders, spine icy: he's let Mordred go, the boy who will one day kill Arthur, and the woman knows.

"Sister…"

When she draws her last shuddering breath, Morgana holds her tight.

* * *

**CVIII.**

"Sire!" Percival, the youngster, has a hand clamped over his side, there's blood across the chainmail. His face remains stoic as he fights, determined, he doesn't want to die. He's one of the few recognizable faces Arthur has seen in awhile, and it's relieving. "There's a light…!" The underlying question is there: shall we retreat, sire, is it dangerous, sire, tell us what to do? Tell us what to do – are we standing upon our graves?

Merlin has flown straight to the heart of the enemy on the dragon's back, Arthur's not sure if he was hurt or injured by doing so. Men - who seconds earlier fought while gravely, inhumanly wounded - now crumbles right before their eyes, falling, broken. The enchantment has been lifted. Suddenly the defenders of Camelot stands without enemies surrounding them, it feels surreal when they finally can breathe.

Up ahead, rising like some kind of star, unblinking and slowly growing, closer, closer – what is it? What is that, sharper than any fire Arthur has ever seen? Is it magic – is it Merlin's magic, or someone else's?

"Stand your ground!" Arthur shouts and raises his sword, firelight reflecting onto its reddened blade. "Stand you ground! Camelot shall not be taken by any foe today - Camelot is ours and ours alone!"

* * *

**CIX.**

Kilgarrah sweeps down when he sees it happen. The witch has lost her control. The magic within her no longer knows bounds, and rushes out, breaking the edges.

The witch's soul is vibrant and clear, unlike many other souls he has seen. Though darkened by hate and misery, it is very much alive; it is those full hot emotions that feed it while it flees this place, through the smoke. Momentarily, he is blinded, but when he can see again, all there is left are ashes. There are no bones, no bodies, not even of the witch's sister: the light has disappeared, the courtyard lays broken and abandoned save for his own looming shadow and the two tiny figures below, unmoving.

The Sword is buried in the cracked stone, a gloved fist holding onto it. Another hand, trembling; the owner yelling at the lumped form it's feebly grasping,  _Wake up wake up_.

Now is his time to leave. The man with the sword doesn't look up at the dragon as it stretches wide wings and takes flight, into freedom. For now, his work here is done.

* * *

**CX** **.**

Her eyes are large and gold and filled with tears and such hatred, born out of loss and failed vengeance, as she rocks back and forth with a limp body in her arms – trembling, like a leaf, a storm, crying crying crying, useless screams falling from her lips, loud and piercing – making the walls shake and the ground collapse on itself.

Merlin looks at her; a woman so broken, so fragile so disrupted by magic by hatred and other strong human emotions and he is heartbroken, knowing it's too late to help, to change things, to do something – it's all too late. This is the beginning of Arthur's time. A time which isn't meant to be Morgana's or Morgause's. Maybe not even his.

"Why?" the woman - she's only  _human_  now and not an immortal witch or princess of a fairytale, no longer a dream, untouchable – she wails, shrieks; " _Why_?" Hands tightly gripping the body in her lap, the layers of blonde hair making waves like water across her knees –  _Why_?  _Who are you? –_ She's never been so alone and vulnerable.

 _Destiny_.

Arthur holds the sword aloft, calling out, trying to make the knights and warriors remain calm. But the ground is quaking and parts of the city are crumbling, falling. People not yet evacuated runs around, screaming, seeking shelter, and the city square is filled with blood.

Then he runs toward the warlock.

Merlin can feel,  _see_  how Morgana's magic pulsates and expands like breathing and is so,  _so near_   _breaking_  with herself and alarm set off in his body, his breath quickens and heart begins galloping; he turns toward the prince, shouting, "Arthur! Get out of the city, Arthur! We have to  **get out!"**

The warning spreads all-over, somehow like through a seamless band Arthur senses it and he begins to withdraw his troops, while the warlock stays, in centre. Merlin can feel already, after mere seconds, how his shields begins to fracture, ripples run through them, through his soul and his magic is like a second living being next to himself – running away to keep up with Morgana's power.

Merlin looks over his shoulder, at Arthur's retreating back (gleaming silver and red and golden, a king, a warrior) and his knights and the citizens who are fleeing – he has no idea if they'll survive, if they'll have enough time.

" _Who are you?"_ she screams in his mind and perhaps with her voice too, but they blend into one, earsplitting and shrill _. "Traitor! Murderer! How can you be Emrys! Murderer!_ _ **Traitor**_ _!"_

Their savior. The prophecies all singing in honour of a stranger, flawless to step up and set things right again. Maybe the gods played dice, the way things turns out.

"Morgana," Merlin whispers, heartbroken, "I'm sorry."

For a split second he can see her all clear. Like a statue made of glass and porcelain – he's nearly reaching out to touch her, to see if she's real.

"I'm so sorry."

Arthur is turning around now, faltering, sees the air tremble as a first and single warning. "Go!" he orders the knights as they also stop and look at him in confusion, "Make sure the people are safe - go!  _Go_!"

Then he turns back and rushes toward the centre of the chaos, at the two silhouettes at the top in a stand-still, motionless as time around them fails to function correctly – the debris falling around them moves slowly like through thick water, some of it even hangs there unsuspended and there's no wind where there should be wind. It becomes difficult to move, each muscle is strained when he steps forward.

Morgana falls apart, dust and wind and magic, suddenly gathering into a single point before falling outwards, knocking air out of Merlin's lungs and his thoughts out of his flesh; dazed, his body crushed against stone, blaring  _pain_. Pale blinding light everywhere – rushing sound, like silence pressing against his ears driving him mad. And there are no more shields and the street is turning to ashes and stone crack and break; for a brief moment, the whole of Camelot is engulfed in sorrow and screams and white, white, white, fragments of sharp stone and voices flying at all directions into the haze.

Arthur rushes forward yelling MERLIN! throwing himself at the warlock even if he can't see, the sword in his hand is hot like iron just from the smithy, he can't let the idiot  _die_ damn it, and there's the smell of smoke and wood heavy in the air, rushing by and disappearing;  _MERLIN!_  he yells again, DAMN IT MERLIN!, Arthur's gripping the warlock's arm like a lifeline, as a strong gust of wind blows through them he holds steady onto his sword, trembling with the shock of impact, he is blinded.

And then.

(Silence.)


	11. CXI - CXX

**CX** **I.**

It is the sword that saves their lives.

Arthur is gripping the handle fiercely, but he's almost too late.

He supposes, later on, when he's fully sane, that he - for some unearthly reason - should thank the dragon. The creature has killed Camelot's people in the past and scorched its walls, so it'll take a lot for Arthur to be able to  _thank_  it. But it provided the sword its power after all; it's got to count as something.

* * *

**CX** **II.**

Merlin wakes to darkness.

Something, someone maybe, a hand is gripping his arm, just above the elbow. The grip is strong and it surprises him because he can't remember being near anybody lately and, come think of it, his memory is very muddled,  _where_   _is_   _he_  anyway?

When he tries to opens his eyes, they refuse to work. There's just…nothing.

"Ar...thur," he gasps, starting to remember, the battle, the light. Was Arthur all right?

And the shaking. The slow, nauseating shaking, the grip of his arm never slacking, it's just shaking him and the world is wobbling like he's drunk. (Did Gwaine drag him to a tavern…? He can't remember drinking. He can barely remember the feeling of drinking, cool soft liquor down his throat, god, he's  _thirsty_.)

"Stay with me you stupid blighter!"

Where are the shouts coming from? He opens his eyes again, and a pale golden light seeps into his vision, it makes his head hurt. Then he tries to speak, but his body feels heavy like lead, and couldn't they stop shouting soon? –  **déofol**!, his head  _hurts_.

"I tell you, if you're dying all for nothing I'm going to kill you myself!"

"N't dyin," Merlin tries to defend himself, a bizarre irony warming his chest at the wondered thought why anybody would want to kill him if he was dying already, except maybe Morgana and Morgause and Mordred and Nimueh and everybody else he's made enemies of during the last few years, so maybe they're quite a few; but if they wanted him dead they would've taken the chance while he was unconscious, wouldn't they? "I'm fine." His tongue is not as heavy now. "Arthur?"

"Damn right you are and stay awake now. You can hear me right?  _Look_  at me damn it!"

The pale yellow light began to form distinct shapes, and two blue eyes looks out of it at him – he almost smiles. This is a very strange dream, isn't it? All this heavy sore pain, the buzzing noise…the buzzing noise, and Arthur leaning over him holding his arm, not shaking him anymore, odd, maybe he's awake?

"Wha…what happened? What's wrong?" he asks, wondering where all the others have gone.

Why is Arthur's voice so  _hysterical_? He's  _never_  hysterical. "You're only bleeding out your own body weight and we're in the middle of a ruined Camelot and Morgana is most probably very dead so  _no_ , nothing's very wrong with that is it! You always have to be so selfless and stupid, you  _never think_ , Merlin. Listen to me, listen, you stay awake now! Don't you dare die on me!"

 _Morgana is dead_ , echoes through his pain-clouded mind,  _Morgana is dead, Camelot's in ruins? -Morgause is dead, Mordred has gone...Morgana is dead. Morgana is dead._

The shock of knowing they'd made it alive, that their enemies are down and they're still up (or at least some form of up; presently only Arthur is  _standing_ up) makes Merlin happy, he could've laughed but when he tries he only coughs and sticky red fluid dribbles down his jaw, it's funny really, he never remembered being stabbed or anything like that – has he? He has, hasn't he? Or maybe Morgana's magic simply began to disintegrate him too, tearing him apart. The very fibers of his being are built and held together by magic and it's all been too much, he's somewhere between absorbing the power still trembling in the air around them or falling apart because of it.

 _God, no wonder Arthur's so angry,_ Merlin thinks with a smile before it all fades away.

* * *

 **CX** **III**.

"Welcome back," Arthur says. Relieved. You're alive, thank god, you had me so worried. But he covers it up as usual, a half-quirked smart grin at the corner of his lips, 'Well aren't you getting lazy and comfortable?' somewhere within the confidence of his voice. There's kindness though, thoughtfulness and the true feeling of concern for a friend being replaced with relief of their well-being.

"See, I told you. We made it," Merlin grins and stretches out like a cat, yawning, instantly regretting it because it tears at the wounds. They hurt and itch something terrible.

"Be careful. I don't fancy having you all-over the floor."

"Thanks," Merlin shoots back dryly. "I appreciate your concern."

"You're quite welcome. Now, I've got better things to do than sit by my servant's bedside all day. Don't try anything – Gaius is coming back any moment to check on you."

"Yeah, right… Hey wait a minute – servant? I thought I was…umm, sacked maybe?"

"I never said I sacked you."

"I was arrested and about to be executed. I supposed that meant I lost my job as well. A dead manservant can't do much work, you know." Not to mention that months has passed since then, they're just faced down an immortal army, and he thinks he deserves a proper rest. (Speaking of immortal – where's the Cup?)

"But you aren't dead (and make sure it stays that way!). Don't come up with petty excuses now for not doing your job. Once you're up and about you can clean my armour, polish my boots, clean my rooms, mock out the stables – well, what's left of them anyway – the whole city is a mess."

Merlin shakes his head, covering his ears in a wild gesture. "Shut up, shut up! I'm lying here exhausted and wounded; you're supposed to cheer me up! Or leave me alone to sleep, better yet."

"…not to mention we need your help repairing the city walls and lower town. And most of the citadel. You do realize with all your magical dueling you blew up half the castle, right? You're just lucky we'd managed to evacuate most of the people by then as far away from the battle as possible."

"Err…Sorry about that."

Arthur looks thoughtful. "On the other hand, you're right. After all this mess you've caused, you  _do_  deserve being fired. I won't go as far as having you executed, but a reunion with the stocks would do you good."

"F-Fired? But, but you just rehired me!" Merlin all but shouts at the prince's face, terribly upset and confused.

"Yup. Now I just realize that you are far too lazy and incompetent for a servant."

"-I've just saved your sorry ass and Camelot and defeated an evil witch and  _this is the thanks I get_? What, losing my job and getting placed in the stocks? You really are an ungrateful condescending  _clotpole,_ a  _supercilious_   _dollophead_ , a—"

"Another position is needed," Arthur cuts in calmly, unfazed. "A court jester would be a true refreshment of this place; we haven't had one in years! Unfortunately that would be a true waste of other, more valuable talents. Congratulations Merlin, I've just made you Court Warlock of Camelot."

Merlin stares at him in shock.

"No comment? No complaints? Well then, I suppose you'll be up and ready tomorrow and start repairing all the damage you've done."

Merlin continues to stare at the man's back as he disappears down the hallway.

"And don't oversleep!"

* * *

 **CX** **IV**.

The Cup of Life hasn't been found yet. Some say it must've been destroyed, but Arthur and Merlin both doubts such a strong magical object can be destroyed by any manpower or magic weaker than itself. And Merlin knows of no stronger magic than that of Life and Death. Some speculate that surviving enemies may have taken it, hidden it and people fear that said enemies shall return armed with Immortality or something worse but nothing happens for days and fires are put out, people begin to stop worrying about that.

Merlin is quite sure that Mordred has the Cup. That the boy summoned it while he lay unconscious, while Arthur was clenching to the sword and pleading for his survival and didn't notice. The moments (minutes? hours?) after Morgana's death, the city had no shields, after all, and Mordred could easily have slipped inside and claimed it.

No one moves the strange sword in the middle of the courtyard. The stone in which is it buried is black by fire. Most is aware that the sword was wielded by Prince Arthur, and both those who were and who weren't has tried removing the weapon from ground. It refuses to move. It is set there, tip down, the courtyard branded and broken; no one who has tried, no matter how strong, could pull the sword out of the stone.

Arthur doesn't care about the sword the first week. And not the second week either. Time is a blur and he sleeps little, eats little, eyes vacant but the rest of his senses very sharp: dead are counted, survivors taken care of, houses temporarily patched together. The urgent meetings with the councilors are endless, his father in his bedchambers in a daze from dawn to dusk, and he can't be left alone for a minute. Merlin is always beside him, helping out, magic flowing like a river and sometimes between silly nonsense he sprouts some very wise words that makes the prince thinks he should probably let Merlin partake in the councils too.

Arthur can't even be surprised anymore.

When he hears the western side of the wall is repairing itself by no manpower he doesn't lift an eyebrow, nor when his chambers are cleaning out themselves, a cloth moving across the floor, a bucket in the corner. He doesn't ask Merlin about why he's dusting out his chambers when the whole city is still such a huge mess, but is glad anyway that he can sleep someplace undisturbed (for the few hours he finds rest), untouched by war. It is a tiny haven smelling of soap and fresh water, the floors have been cleaned the previous evening, and there's not a single speck of dirt anywhere.

He has been hearing rumours that Cenred's kingdom stands in fact without a king, that Cenred has been killed, perhaps in battle, perhaps by murder. Arthur cannot concentrate on that right now, he has to pick up the pieces of his own home and put them back together before he can think of politics. However, with the councilors' nagging it is difficult, they won't leave him alone; and his father begins demanding to know what's going on.

His father. His father broke when Morgana let her betrayal into the light. Uther has become a wreck, locking himself into his chambers, alone and confused and frightened. It is like during the battle with the immortal army: he's going mad, shouting into the night and silent like a ghost at daytime. He's withdrawing quickly, becoming less of a man and less of a king.

Unofficially, Arthur takes up the rule of Camelot. Officially, Uther is still the king and has everything under control.

The man doesn't know about the Court Warlock, which is probably for the better.

* * *

 **CX** **V**.

The third week, Arthur stops before the sword when he is walking across the courtyard.

The city is healing. The people are devastated and scarred, but most parts of the city have been rebuilt thanks to Merlin and hundreds of volunteering men and women; rubble cleared out, streets opened. Salesmen have begun selling fresh bread at the marketplace again and Arthur is glad that they have enough food in store to survive well until the farmers can return to their fields again.

The sword gleams in the sunlight and all traces of blood have washed away by rain. For some reason, the blade has remained sharp and strong, there are no signs of rust, the surface is smooth with the golden inscriptions still clear.

Merlin pauses when Arthur does. "What is it?"

"It saved our lives, you know?"

"It did?" Merlin asks, curiously. He looks at the blade. He's done so several times before: it's pulsating with power, but it has been there all since it was begotten in Kilgarrah's breath. "How? I don't remember much."

Just this hazy white light and pain and Morgana's screaming, he thinks, but doesn't speak the words aloud.

"I…I thrust it into the ground, though somehow it took little force; when I held onto it, I felt no pain from the blast. That bright light, it went right through us, then down into the ground through the sword. The burn marks…" Arthur gestures at the stone.

"Perhaps you shall pull it out," Merlin suggests. "I mean, you are its rightful owner. You haven't even named it like you have all other swords of yours. What is it with knights and naming inanimate, deadly objects, anyway?"

"This is a sword meant for a king. You said it yourself," Arthur says quietly. "I am only prince yet. All those prophecies you have told me about, they may be true, but I am not king."

"Then when will you pull out the sword? You  _are_  the once and future king, Arthur. I know it. No one else will be able to remove the sword."

"Then I shall leave it here until it is time for me to take up my father's mantle."

"…I suppose you're right," the warlock admits at lenght, understanding the difficulties and implications of Arthur claiming this sword before he is ready.

"Is that surprising you, Merlin?" Arthur asks, a hint of smugness in his tone reminding of the old times when Merlin was just a servant and Arthur was just a prince.

* * *

**CX** **VI.**

Uther is a shadow.

Stricken haunted eyes, staring into hours of nothingness and words of  _betrayal_ and  _pain_ and _distrust_ spilling off his lips. The words form pathetic heaps on the floor where they're brushed away by a passing coy servant along with layers of dust and the smell of strangers. Arthur tries to reach out and comfort but he's never been good at it, and his father is, well, his father, cold even in his shaken distance. The old king's wary mind has been shocked to the core and his head echoes with tear-falls and traitors and  _sorcery._

The shadow sits in the corner of his chamber like a scared hare. No one but a servant and a guard is let in and everyone is cautious to approach and Arthur has no idea what to do. Who to turn to. Who to ask. What to ask. His father – he loves his father, and wants to help him, and at the same time, there are a lot of errors in the man which the prince cannot cherish. Cannot comfort. The shadow is lonely, feeling bizarre and left out. He's no longer the king of Camelot. He's no longer a king at all, not even of himself, and his audacity has been crumbled to ashes and his hatred burns, burns like fire, a torch in his chest. Burning alongside a hundred other torches: uncertainty, distrust,  _sorcery sorcery sorcery;_ aches deep in his heart, for himself and his people but mostly himself, painful betrayal, Morgana – his daughter – Morgana – who is gone _._

"Father?"

Arthur tries. But the response is vague and the king is rambling, grabbing his son's arm and warning him, "Do not trust anybody, son, nobody can be trusted, they're all telling lies. All of them, lying." A hoarse whisper into the shell of his ear. "Trust nobody. All lies, all lies, even the knights, they all tell lies." The words spear the prince's chest:  _Merlin_ , he thinks,  _Merlin lied and betrayed and hid from me (for so long and even now I cannot be sure he's always telling the truth), but I have and will yet place my life in his hands._

Evil. Good. Evil. Magic. Gwen and Gaius and even Merlin sometimes says that nothing is truly good or evil and that the world's shaped by us (our intentions?) and something about  **Destiny**  and how the sword is a weapon too, and can be used for good and evil alike. Magic  _is_  a weapon. That's all his father sees: a weapon against Camelot. Always. Forever. Evil. To Arthur, everything is vague: there are no clear lines separating evil from good and not everyone is branded.

(It's not like his father thinks. The reality is much more complicated.)

Morgana and Morgause aimed to kill the king and they have. Inside. Arthur is sure that his father won't change, rather harden, a stony heart and a stronger hand. Or perhaps, he'll whither, he's old, weary and heavy-hearted, fade away like the shadow he is now until he's one with the pale walls around him and disappear. A ghost.

"Sire?"

Gaius tries. The response is hazier still and the king doesn't ask for but is given ill-tasting remedies to make him sleep deeply and dreamlessly or at least  _sleep._ Some dreams cannot be stopped by medicine and herbs. The king does not complain, not at all, does not express anger over some servant's slip or mistake the other day and does not demand to know what's going on with his land, his city, his people, the knights, the battle. In the shell he's living in, the air he breathes is the same as yesterday and twenty years ago and with each breath, he remembers the smug look on Morgana's face and Nimueh's promises and Igraine's dear hands, voice, presence, right before she faded away. Maybe his world began to crumble already that day, over two decades ago, that moment when  _she_ died and a golden-haired child was placed in his arms.

* * *

 **CX** **VII**.

"Is he any better?"

Gwen is one of the few who asks so softly and concernedly about everyone.

Arthur shakes his head, a hand on her waist: it feels at home to be so near her and his hearts beats for her. "No. If anything...he's growing worse. Every hour. …I don't know what to do."

Is he ready? Ready to step up and become king? It's inevitable: it's not an  _if_ , but  _when_ , and that might be far too soon. Uther is melting before his eyes like a sculpture of snow when it's thawing – it's a paradox really. The colder the king becomes, the more he melts.

Past conversations (odd moments which are surprisingly clear in his mind) reminds him about  _You'll be a great king_  and  _Destiny_  again, and it's upsetting and apprehensive simultaneously. Already, by taking charge of not only the knights but the city and affairs and countless council meetings, he's the king in all but name and the people are very aware of that. The reactions to the king's fading-away are mixed within the citizens. Some cheer and others cry. Because they have realized that Arthur has grown (and  _is_  growing) and is going to be a just and fair king and Camelot is ready for him. Waiting. Patiently expecting a change, a great change of some kind, the end of panicked tyranny.

Gwen smiles, puts her hands on his shoulders. They're roughened by years of servants' work, not like a lady's smooth and fine, and her grip is supportive and firm, gaze unwavering. "Listen to your mind, and your heart. I know that you're ready."

His voice is thick in his throat (since when is he this emotional and so…so…Merlin-influenced? Damn that idiot. Making him like this! He ought to... – but it doesn't matter, it's not the point right now).

"...But  _I_ don't."

* * *

 **CX** **VIII**.

He's carrying, Merlin realizes, a lot of scars.

There are these really old ones from childhood, long ago when times were more carefree and the world a much bigger place. Like that small slit on Merlin's thigh which nobody really knows about – when he was seven, or maybe eight, he'd been playing down the icy river with Will, two childishly naïve boys who'd believed they could cross the stream which was frozen over and looked solid enough. Those rocks came into view too late when suddenly the ice cracked and Will and Merlin pushed each other out of the way and suddenly they were deep into cold cold cold water – soaked and terrified, they'd managed to climb to shore and the water had frozen their tiny bodies so much, Merlin couldn't feel the blood, didn't notice the pain, Will was laughing loudly out of exhilaration, survival; Merlin simply laughed with him.

Other such incidents had nicked his knee and his wrist (handling old Gerald's scythe had been a good idea at the time; he'd wanted to help out some way that didn't involve magic) but, those were small and insignificant and maybe shaped who he was in a very little, subtle way, but, as pointed out, they're part of a long-gone past to which he cannot return.

Others are not as old, part of a history much more significant and hurting, head and heart pounding when he thinks of them – battles with magic and soldiers – battles with himself – battles of all kinds silent and deafening, some right now so far away they're vague like dreams (his chest has never really healed from that blast by Nimueh) – one of the most recent one made by the Serket when he was chained down and immobile and yet unable to show who he really was.

Bodies heal, they say, given time and patience (and maybe magic). Merlin hasn't had that much time, but it doesn't matter much because the scars in the flesh aren't that bothering. He doesn't own any mirror so it's not like he can look at them all and be reminded all the time – some scars he simply looks away from, others he can smile at, at childhood stupidity and happiness, some remind him even of Will, of climbing that tree, being free and naive.

The mind doesn't heal that way. Yes, they all say that a fractured heart can be put back together relatively whole again and that friends turned enemies may forgive, but he doubts it always work and a broken heart can only be mended so many times before it's got too many cracks than can be mended, no glue can fill – it's destroyed.

(Morgana, the poison-laced water and words and embrace, Morgana, Mordred, Morgause, allied and aligned and perfect, cold strange words, changes he's not ready for, Arthur's stupidity, eradication, emptiness.)

It's much harder to forget, forgive, make the past not so present,  _stop remembering what pain feels like and go hiding._

He supposes that king Uther can only agree.

* * *

 **CX** **IX**.

Merlin observes him sometimes from a corner when he's not busy elsewhere with repairing the city walls, other people's trust in him or citizens' homes. He's been through much hardship too, much that the king cannot fathom, nor can Arthur. That's why he, when he knows the reasons for Uther's hate, understands. Why he so fearfully burns and beheads and banished magic to begin with: the Purge –  _why_. It's precious to understand. It's also frightening, all this hate this man possesses, passionate hate and fear.

To say he's not ever been tempted to rid of this man, murderer of his kind, would be a lie. But Merlin is not cold-hearted, he wishes no one real harm. Only those who hurts the ones he love. That's why it hurts so terribly whenever the memory of Morgana arises. It won't go away.

In the shadow of a sunset, he approaches, in guise of being a servant clearing the table, beginning to talk. "Are you going to return? Sire?"

It's odd really. The king has barely noticed that he's back, that he's the very same warlock sentenced to death.

"Arthur isn't feeling ready to step onto the throne."

At first there's no reply, and no acknowledgement. Then, a murmur, an old man's voice: "He has told you so?"

It's not really a lie, even if Arthur hasn't told him outright. "Several times, sire. He's very worried for you. His father."

"And he trusts you?"

"Sire, you need to convince him that he'll be a good king, a good man. He's too much of a prat to listen to me."

"So he does. Listens. Trusts you. How come? You cannot be anything more than a servant." For the first time, the king lifts his eyes. Briefly they widen with recognition, but no fear.

"Trust is a precious thing, sire. Please, tell him that it'll be all right and he'll be a great king. For he will be, I know. But he needs  _your_  reassurances." It's incredibly odd to stand here before the man he equally fears and respects, a man so broken, whose previous power yet shine in his eyes. The king regards the warlock carefully.

Gaze flickers away, the room turns black and gray again, the air silent. Uther hasn't responded to the pleading. Or is it pleading? It's more of a ...demand. Request. Merlin can't define.

"Uther. Your son needs you. To come back, at least one last time. To assure and encourage him. Please."

"...Why? I am a broken man. Nothing but a shame! Arthur, Arthur shouldn't..."

"Uther. Your son  _needs_   _you_."

Perhaps it is too late.

(A life for a life. That is the rule of magic, the only thing hindering it. Because everything has a price.)

* * *

**CXX.**

The Isle is empty yet not, the gusts of winds are cold and there's so little hope. Time is at standstill at this place. There is no way to tell if she's lingered here for an age, a lifetime, or a short simple moment, the blink of an eye.

(It might've been forever.)

" _Please, give me a way. There must be a way!"_

Her sister gave her everything: faith, something to believe in, strength, a purpose. Her magic and gift to See meant something and they could fulfill something great and have a place in this world. And so suddenly she's alone. Her sister was her only kin. Her only true kin. The druids, the other magical people out there – she cannot trust them ever like she trusted Morgause. She can't even trust magic anymore. It took her sister away.

"Please," she whispers, flickering. She's not real: her body is just an illusion now. Her magic gathered at the only place it felt like it belonged, and the shadowy souls residing at the Isle calling: come, come home, you are a creature of magic just like us.

" _I know she taught you. A life for a life,"_  the boy answers, voice ringing clear across the half-dead grass and water, the mists clearing as he speaks.

Her sister needs to live. She deserves to life. Without her, Morgana is lost, she doesn't know what steps to take. She needs guidance. But if she took her own life, what reason would there be to send Morgause's soul back to this earth? In life or in death, she and her sister  _need_  to be together.

" _You know what you must do,"_  Mordred says.  _"A soul is much more powerful than a physical body. You_ _ **are**_ _power, Morgana. That is why you have been called here. That is your purpose."_

She shudders, visibly, she doesn't  _want_  to  _be_  power; she has desired to hold it but never to live of it, depend on it, and she shudders a second time when she realizes that in this form she might  _never_   _die_ , never truly live nor truly die. She's not alive nor dead, just one ill-fated soul among many, trapped in this shadow because of her bitterness and grief.

"The High Priestess is dead," Morgana whispers, recalling her sister's words of great praise of a woman Morgana has never met or seen. "Emrys has damned this place. I can't…I don't know  _how!_ "

" _You do,"_  the boy disagrees, his expression hasn't changed whatsoever.  _"A life for a life."_

(King Uther of Camelot dies that same night without a sound, falling into the emptiness and the bitterness on the tongue of Morgan Le Fey briefly falls away as she can hold her sister's hand.)


	12. Epilogue

It is the beginning of winter when Uther Pendragon, king of Camelot, dies. He hasn't stepped outside his chambers for over two months, all since the battle which has left the city scarred. The physical ones have been mended, but the memories shall linger fresh in everyone's mind for years to come.

They bury him in a quiet ceremony with many eyes watching, but few words spoken. The courtyard is littered with people holding candles and torches and crying into the night, while snowflakes slowly make their way to the ground and melt by their feet.

Hours later, people yet wait, but their faces aren't streaked with sorrow but with hope.

Merlin is certain that Arthur is mature enough and ready for this responsibility, but the man doubts himself and when it's time for him to enter the great hall and receive the crown and officially take the position he's held unofficially for many weeks; his shoulders are tense and he hesitates by the door.

"You can do it," Merlin says and smiles. "Or do you want me to hold your hand?"

Arthur gives him an incredulous look, but it's soft around the edges and part of him would've probably liked to hold onto the warlock's hand for support, for confirmation, an  _I'm here and won't let you go._ Those brief times still come when he fears that whatever that lies ahead will tear the warlock away from his side, leaving a painful wound that cannot be healed. However right now, Merlin is here, by his side, and it's all right.

It's strange: because Merlin is back to his old self and looks no worse for wear, he's still tall and thin and pale and the skin around his eyes wrinkle in mirth when he laughs, he looks so young while his eyes are old, wiser, more anguished than they should be. He looks eternal and, when you think about it, inhuman – Arthur on the other hand looks as he feels, older, more tired, wiser than he used to be, not so naïve. He's a man, while the warlock still partly looks like a boy, and he wonders sometimes if it's the magic, and if Merlin will remain that way for perpetuity or if it'll pass.

"I'm not three years old, Merlin."

"There, see, you still have your spirit. Go on. I know you can do this. Everyone does, the people have their faith and trust with you."

"I'm not sure  _I_  do," the almost-king murmurs. "But this is not the time for doubts."

"Gwen is waiting for you," the warlock adds after a moment, another smile tugging at his lips. It's leaked to the public about the prince's affair but only a few councilors are angered, the people is happy for their prince and now the maidservant has been turned into a lady, it is all right for them to marry and a queen will do Camelot good. "Go."

He puts a hand on Arthur's back and pushes him through the doors as they open, and without stumbling Arthur begins walking gracefully inside, Merlin a few steps behind. The secure constant behind his back and invisible support radiating from the warlock makes Arthur feel safer and his steps are firmer the closer to the throne he comes.

 _Maybe those prophecies Mer_ _lin's gone on about could be true after all_ , he thinks as the ceremony begins and falls by in a blur and later, what he remembers is the crowd cheering and Guinevere walking up to his side (her presence is heartwarming) and Merlin grinning at him like a fool (much like that time when Arthur defeated Valiant, only wider, brighter and even more silly), then the king makes up his mind and leaves the grand hall with its candle-lights and beautifully clad lords and ladies.

They follow his tow as he walks outside – the people greet him with wide open smiles and bowing and he smiles back, feeling both apprehension and true joy for the first time in weeks; he has a difficult task ahead and his heart still mourns the loss of his father, but he isn't alone. He's never been alone, and will not be.

The people part making a pathway for him and no one seems to realize what he's about to do, except maybe Merlin, who has this glint in his eyes and his face is illuminated by pride; Arthur steps up to the charred stone and takes hold of the hilt of the sword, holding his breath before pulling and it actually comes loose, metal rasping against stone without effort.

 _Excalibur_ , he thinks,  _the_   _cleaver of death and life, of iron and of stone._

"Hail King Arthur!" cries Merlin, hands raised, the sky impossibly clear and the people of Camelot choirs with him; he drowns in the voices, the cheer, deafened by the force of it and the realization that it's not some kind of dream. "Long live king Arthur! Long live the king!"

Arthur looks up at his people and his city and beyond it toward the horizon, feeling somewhere deep in his heart, that _this_ , this might be the start of a legend.


End file.
